


Teach Me How to Love You

by CallMeElle



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, F/M, Porn With Plot, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-06-10 21:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15300705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeElle/pseuds/CallMeElle
Summary: “Once desire was turned on, combustion gave it a life of its on. Once it was turned on, it became a raging wildfire, uncontrollable, and uncontainable, the type of conflagration that had to be allowed to burn itself out.”





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my literal first fanfiction ever. In some down time this summer, I rewatched seasons one through three of Sleepy Hollow and was reminded why I had fallen in love with these characters. Then I felt inspired to write a little something. I hope you enjoy! Please enjoy :)  
> As I've never done this, I'm hopeful that there are enough people who return to the fandom enough to read and comment and let me know if this is something worth pursuing.  
> Happy reading!  
> *Caught some typos. I did a little editing and hope to be back before the week is out.

I.

_“Once desire was turned on, combustion gave it a life of its on. Once it was turned on, it became a raging wildfire, uncontrollable, and uncontainable, the type of conflagration that had to be allowed to burn itself out.” -Eric Jerome Dickey_

 

Abbie Mills’ favorite coffee shop was on the corner of 34th Street and West Hill Avenue. It was a picturesque little place, a bright orange awning shading the front and wrought iron table sets littering the pavement. It was flanked by a Subway and a trendy little consignment shop, both places that she frequented. She went to get coffee every morning before class, without fail, and today--the first day of her last semester of college--was no exception. It was nearly 8 when she pushed through the door of the building.

The Coffee Shop was charming in its hodgepodge rusticness, full of overstuffed chairs placed haphazardly next to surprisingly comfortable couches and refurbished side tables. In addition to the medley of furniture, there was a certain type of people that loitered in this particular coffee shop: writer types that probably spiked their morning joe; college students that dragged in half asleep, feening for caffeine; men and women in business suits dumping way too much sugar into their to-go containers. Abbie was somewhere in the middle, a college student that woke up at 5 every day for a jog and while she wasn’t opposed to a little whiskey in her coffee, business suits and kitten heels were not her thing.

She walked expertly around a coffee table that seemed to pop up out of nowhere, her tall navy blocked heels tapping a cadence on the wood floors. She got fourth in line to wait, shifting her backpack from her right shoulder to her left. It was hot, floor fans working tirelessly to cool the place. Her curly hair was brushed into a neat little ball on top of her head and she was glad that she’d had the foresight to keep the hair off her neck. She moved up in the line.

When she got to the counter, she shot a grin at the barista, the tall, handsome son of an Italian immigrant.

“Hey, what’s up Tony,” she greeted him.

“Hey Abbie, how’s it going?” His voice was a strange mix of his father’s Italy and southeast Georgia.

“It’s good. I’m surprised to see you here so early.”

“Yeah. Dad claims it's to teach me responsibility. I think it’s just to get me up before noon on most days.”

Abbie inclined her head. “Well, it’s my luck. Just means I get to see you more.”

She watched the younger man blush, cheeks a little pink. This is what she liked about The Coffee Shop, baristas who knew her by name, who flirted with her and made her feel welcome.

Tony gestured behind him. “What can I get you this morning?”

She glanced behind the counter at the vast selection of coffees--ground daily with beans imported from various countries, including France, Brazil, and several African nations. There were a number of flavor enhancers to choose from, syrups and flavored milks and sugars, as well as breads, muffins, scones, and other pastries baked fresh daily. It was probably the closest Abbie might get to heaven and she reveled in it.

Minutes later, she placed a blueberry scone--”It’s on me, Abbie. Enjoy your day.”--into her bag and walked away from the counter, large French roast with almond milk and hazelnut clutched in her hand. She started toward the door, vaguely acknowledging people she passed by.

She felt the scalding sting of coffee on her hand before she realized she had bumped into someone, watching, as if out of body, as her cup tumbled to the floor.

“What the fuck?”

“Pardon me.”

Abbie scowled as she bent to pick up the cup, the strong smell of coffee still filtering from the paper.

“Why don’t you watch…” she looked up--jeez he was tall, she noted absently--and then her words died on her lips.

A pair of blue eyes blinked down at her, stormy, the blue of the Atlantic Ocean at twilight, after wind and rain had ravaged the waters.

“Abigail,” the man said, voice hushed like if he spoke any louder, he might spook her. That possibility was not off the table.

Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. She couldn’t find her voice so instead she looked him over. His ivory skin was lightly tan, like he had spent every weekend since she had last seen him shirtless and chopping down trees in the woods. His face was far too appealing, dark eyebrows over those eyes framed by eyelashes Abbie had once told him she was almost willing to kick a puppy for. He had a rather patrician nose and his neatly trimmed mustache and full beard drew attention to a mouth that had felt much softer than she would have ever imagined.

Everything about him was deliberate, the way his baby blue button down made his eyes seem almost bottomless; and how the material stretched firmly across his shoulders; like the way his navy pants followed the long lines of his frame and that his camel colored shoes and belt brought the entire ensemble together. He was gorgeous. And he was exactly as she remembered him, but more: somehow taller, broader, even more handsome. He looked older too, more tired, a story--one that could have nothing or everything to do with her--living in the blue of his eyes.

Abbie found her ears ringing as she straightened up and was finally able to stammer out, “Cr-Crane. What are you…”

She inhaled deeply, let out a long exhale.

“What are you doing here? I thought… I thought you had gone back to Europe.”

“Yes, well… I only returned a few weeks ago.”

“A few weeks? You’ve been here a few weeks?”

He looked contrite. “I should have called,” he told her. “I should have…”

“No.”

They were both surprised by the vehement outburst.

“No, you shouldn’t have called. You probably thought that I had graduated and gone. I’m not even supposed to…” her words tapered off again.

She hated this feeling, this hesitancy, this bout of insecurity that she felt when she was around him. He was not supposed to… she had not expected to… She was _never_ supposed to see him again. He had left her, got on a plane and _ran_ from her, without so much as the courtesy of a good-bye. She had been left in a bed with sheets that had smelled like him, smelled like _them_ , and Abbie had had to try to pick up the shattered pieces of her heart. Alone. He had abandoned her, another in a line of people who’d had their fill of Abbie and then had still found her wanting. And now he had returned--had been there for weeks!--expecting her to no longer be attending Evanswood University. He was there, he was back, and only because he thought she wouldn’t be. Didn’t that just put the fucking cherry on top of her relationship with Ichabod Thomas Crane.

He sighed and gestured with his hands, the long fingers wide, as if he couldn’t figure out what to do with the hand. He ended up running it through his chestnut brown hair. Her eyes followed the gesture, memories assaulting her. She saw her own hands tangled in the wavy locks, her mouth hovering above his, her body atop him, milking him, tight and warm around him, as he held onto her hips for dear life. She saw herself on her back, legs spread wide and knees pointed towards the heavens, his head of hair a pretty picture as he drowned himself in her cunt and ate her like he hadn’t been fed in _years_.

“Abigail,” she heard him call, breaking up the images in her brain, and she startled, angry with herself for allowing for thoughts she had not indulged in since the day he left America. She had to get out of there.

“I have to go,” she said, “before I’m late for class.” She waved a hand and started to turn away from him.

“Abigail…”

“I’ll see you around Dr. Crane.”

She gave him one more glance over, pointedly ignoring the crestfallen expression he wore.

“Abigail,” he tried again but she continued walking, eyes forward, heart still barely pieced together, until she was out of the door and she felt like she could finally breathe again.

 

************

 

Ichabod Crane was certain someone had siphoned all of the oxygen from the room, taking with it not only his ability to breathe but his ability to think. What on earth had just happened? She had done it again, steamrolled into his life when he least expected it, commanding every ounce of his attention, every ounce of his being. He ran a heavy hand across his face, fingers catching briefly in his beard.

He blinked, looked around, only just noticing that there was a young man beside him with a mop trying to clean up the coffee around him.

“Sir?” he heard the man say and Ichabod had a feeling that it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to gain his attention. “Are you okay?”

He blinked again. “Yes, I--” He stood to his full height, hoping that would get some of his equilibrium back. “I’m quite alright. Thank you.”

Suddenly needing air, Ichabod left The Coffee Shop, moving quickly on long legs, careful this time not to bump into anyone. Soon, he was back outside in the overly humid Georgia air and, ironically, it was only then that he felt as if he might be able to breathe again. His chest heaved as he inhaled, lungs contracting, expanding painfully with every breath he took. He looked out into the sun as he stood obstructively in front of the building’s door, hand pressed to his chest, fingers splayed against the soft fabric of his work shirt. Around him, the world moved, people rushing down the street--alone, in pairs, in groups--quickly heading to jobs or school or places unknown. They were all impervious to the mini panic attack he was having.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he mumbled, taking one last deep breath before starting down the street in the direction of the university.

He couldn’t believe he had stumbled, literally, into _her_ _How_ was that even possible when three, four years ago he had been quite convinced she was the most beguiling woman he had ever had the fortune to lay eyes upon.

In the three years that he had been gone from Evanswood, the small but rather appealing town in south Gerogia that he had settled in by accident, she had been in a constant loop in his head. Sometimes it was vague, an idea of her, like her voice in his head when he was being particularly fanciful and needed a voice of reason; or such as when he would walk down the street and catch a scent of sweet lavender and he would see her eyes blinking back at him, big and warm the way they were when he had told her he loved her and though she couldn’t say the words, he had known she felt the same.

Other times, thoughts of her were _invasive_ : like late at night when he’d be sprawled across his bed--sometimes alone, sometimes not--and he would picture her lithe little body atop him. She would appear to him so vividly, the supple shape of her: the gentle slope of her shoulders; her full breasts, the areolas perfectly round and dark, nipples puckered and wet from his tongue; the deep curve of her waist and toned stomach; her hips and ass, literal works of art that led to legs shapely and seemingly too long for someone with such a short stature. He would envision her riding him, body tight and hot and wet around his cock, the feeling so bloody _delectable_ that he’d either fist himself until his vision whitened or he would guiltily push himself into whomever shared his bed, working his hips until he pulsed hot cum into a prophylactic.

None of that, however, _none_ of that had prepared him for seeing her again. He hadn’t so much as spoken her name since he had been gone; there was no surprise that he had not been ready. She had looked so, so stunning. Her curly hair, usually out, wild, and hanging past her shoulders, had been up in a neat little bun allowing him to see the graceful curve of her neck. She had a face that was improbably flawless, dark eyebrows over big brown eyes, the color of them reminiscent of the mahogany wood furniture Ichabod was so fond of, like the desk in his office, one of the first places he had been able to spread Abbie and sink inside of her. He shook his head, tried to clear that particular memory.

The dress she had been wearing had been a simple slip of a dress, a shapeless thing in navy that managed to mold itself to the shape of her, reminding him and announcing to everyone that she was a woman. The neckline, sleeves, and hem of the dress had been edged in a deep wine color and stopped just below her knees but the matching heels she wore gave her enough height that her legs looked sensational. And, even more than that, what Ichabod couldn’t get out of his head were her lips, soft, plump pillows painted in the same color as the details in her dress. Her mouth was an actual gift from God.

Ichabod looked up to find himself only a block away from the university’s History building, the red brick stature looming tall and imposing in front of him. When he had moved back to his family home in Scotland, the decision an abrupt one that had both delighted his mother and confused the faculty, he’d had no plans to see the building again. It had been the place he’d lost his mind, lost his heart. Every year the college administrators had begged he return and every year he had declined. Until this year. Because he had thought that she would be gone; that she would have matriculated and left the town, gone away, to somewhere far where she could let her light shine, where she wouldn't be stifled by him.

She was still here, however, still here and still lovely and still the owner of his heart, of _him_. So it was with a deep sigh and another muttered “bloody hell” that Ichabod hefted his leather satchel higher onto his shoulder and walked the last block to his fate.

 

************

 

On the other side of the campus in the Social Sciences building, Abbie made it to her Criminal Justice Senior Seminar class with three minutes to spare. She walked down to the third row from the front and turned to the side, wiggling her hips so that she and her butt could make it down the aisle to the middle where her best friend was sitting, notebook open in front of her.

“Abbie!” she called when she saw her, wide grin on her pretty face. “Where have you…”

Sophie Foster’s words and grin floundered at the expression Abbie was wearing. “What’s wrong, Abs?”

“I…” She dropped her backpack onto the floor. “He…”

Abbie swallowed, the realization that Professor Ichabod Crane, her former professor, her former lover, was on the same continent again causing her heart to beat so quickly it was nearly painful.

“Sophie, he’s back,” she gasped. “Crane’s back.”

Sophie’s mouth fell open, lips red against her honey brown skin, eyes wide. “He’s really back?” She tilted her head, long black hair framing her face.

Abbie just nodded.

“Oh my fuck.”

 _Yes,_ Abbie thought, _my sentiments exactly._


	2. II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Thank you all SO MUCH for your kind words. It really meant a lot.  
> So, I'm doing this story as a kind of 500 Days of Summer type situation. All the flashbacks will be random snippets into their relationship while present day will follow real time.  
> My thought process doing that is, when I think about past relationships, the memories come back in snippets that aren't in order. We remember some things more readily than others so I wanted to take that approach. Let me know if it works!  
> I also want to point out that I'm fairly certain I had no control over anything I wrote. I sat down with my notebook and started writing and the next thing I know, this happened. Smh.  
> Thanks so much for reading. Comments keep the updates coming :)

II.

 

“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings” --Anais Nin

 

November 2012

 

_Ichabod would like to say that he did not know what 3 a.m looked like. He would like to say that he was unaware of how brilliant the stars appeared blanketed in the midnight velvet of the southern sky, infinitely brighter than they seemed in many other cities he had lived in. He wished he didn’t know by sound every creak his cabin made, the ominous groan of the floorboards, the foreboding screech of the walls. He knew it all too well, though, because as his body must hate him, he woke up every day at precisely 2:45 a.m. He would also like to say that it was a ghost that woke him up every morning but his life was not that interesting. Except, perhaps, for the woman in his bed._

_On a Friday night--well, Saturday morning-- in late November, Ichabod untangled himself from the warm body next to him and eased out of the bed. He watched as she shifted with his absence, turning away and burrowing deeper in the covers, curling her body into a ball. With a vacant smile on his face, he picked up a pair of boxers that she had peeled off of him earlier in the night and pulled them on, throwing on a heavy navy robe too. Not bothering to turn on any lights, he padded through the cabin to the very back where he had set up his study._

_The study wasn’t an overly large room but he had designed it specifically to his comfort. Two of the four walls were filled top to bottom with books, the shelves teeming with titles for both academia and pleasure. A desk was settled facing the only window in the room, back to one of the bookshelves. The big bay window opened to the garden he had started in his backyard. There wasn’t much furniture other than that, only a stuffed leather armchair, big enough to fit his frame, and an iron bar cart, painted in gold varnish, complete with several containers of whiskeys and scotches and a small ice bucket he refilled daily. The entire room was decorated in muted shades: mahogany furniture, navy fabrics, olive accents, and a little bit of varnished gold to tie it all together. It was his favorite room in the house._

_Ichabod loosened the belt of his robe just a bit as he walked over to the liquor cart. He grabbed a lowball whiskey glass, dropped in a few perfectly square ice cubes, and poured himself two fingers of Macallan scotch. He put the glass to his lips and took a sip, closing his eyes to savor the taste. Then he moved to sit as his desk._

_He had just received back a collection of essays on Native American involvement in the Revolutionary War from his two classes of first year students. He pulled those from the briefcase that was sitting on the floor, placing the stack to the left of him on the desk. He picked up his green grading pen. He’d heard once that grading in any color other than red reduced anxiety in students so he tried to grade, essays especially, in bright, cheerful colors. He grabbed the first essay from the stack and hunkered down to work._

_Ichabod was only a few papers in when he heard the sound of the partially opened door being pushed wider. He looked up to see Abbie’s hand on the doorknob, shyly gazing into the room. He gave her a smile._

_“Come on in.”_

_She did, walking slowly into the room. From what he could see, she was only in his shirt, a metal gray button down he had, or rather_ she _had discarded, ripping a couple of the buttons in the process. She was half buttoned in it now, the color muted against the vibrant brown of her skin. He followed the expanse of smooth legs as she came over to him. Before she had fallen asleep, she had lamented the fact that she had not her silk scarf with her in order to protect her hair so she had just piled the luscious curls in a tight ball on her head. He could see the long line of her neck, faint bite marks marring the skin. He could not find it in himself to feel shame for marking her._

_She came to a stop next to his desk, resting her hip on the furniture._

_“I reached for you and you weren’t there.” She bit at her bottom lip. “Before I remembered that we were at your place, I thought you’d left.”_

_He blinked at her, tilting his head, and studied the expression on her face. In his classroom, she was so confident, sure in convictions that she could, more often than not, back up. She was headstrong and not a little bit stubborn, usually blatantly challenging him. None of that was present currently. She wouldn’t quite meet his eyes and she fiddled nervously with her fingers, chewing on her lip._

_Ichabod was not daft and knew that this sudden hesitancy had much to do with their relationship and the line they had so willingly crossed the night before. She was his pupil, he her professor, and there were so many rules, laws against what they were doing that he was going slightly insane at the thought of it. He was also nearly ten years her senior, something that seemed so obvious as he stared at her now. Sometimes, she looked so young. None of that, however, could change the fact that Ichabod found her positively_ enthralling _and, despite his endeavors, he could not seem to do what was right and stay away._

_He grabbed her hand and pulled her closer, settling her into his lap. She didn’t immediately curl into him, still unsure._

_“I wouldn’t leave you,” he told her. “Not without first saying goodbye.” He planted a kiss on her forehead._

_“Okay,” was her soft reply._

_“I don’t sleep much,” he explained. “So I usually come in here, have a drink to settle me, and grade papers.”_

_Abbie’s eyes widened. “Have you graded my essay yet? Lemme see.”_

_She turned towards his desk and began shifting through papers. Ichabod was momentarily distracted, staring at his shirt as it rose up her thighs. He couldn’t tell if she wore underwear and he desperately wanted to find out. Instead he swatted at her hand, attempting to move papers out of her reach._

_“No. You will get your paper returned to you with the rest of the class.”_

_She affected a pout. “I thought there’d be some perks to this whole thing.”_

_Ichabod lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll give you perks.”_

_To prove his point, he leaned closer and nibbled at the soft spot under her ear, licking her, circling his tongue until he heard a soft little moan._

_“So,” she whispered, voice soft, sensual. “Just so I know: blowing you won’t get me an A?”_

_Ichabod leaned back, eyes wide, scandalized. “Abigail!”_

_She laughed, a deep throaty chuckle, and she eased out of his lap._

_“I’m kidding, Crane.” She winked at him and then started walking around, giving herself a self-guided tour._

_“This place is nice,” she commented. “Very you.”_

_“Thank you. It was the room I put the most effort in.”_

_She nodded and continued her tour. He followed her movements, watching as she ran her fingers along his bookshelves, picking up knickknacks, fingering various titles._

_“Your choices surprise me,” she mumbled._

_“Oh?”_

_“Yeah.” Abbie caressed the spine of a book before pulling it from the shelf. “I took you primarily for a man of your craft, reading mostly history texts and other nonfiction.”_

_“That is the bulk of what I read.”_

_“Yes, but there’s also a fair amount of fiction. And poetry.” She held up the book she was holding. “Like this. I’ve never heard of the guy, although_ that _doesn’t surprise me. You seem like the type of like obscure artists.”_

_“What guy?”_

_She read off the name as she pivoted and started back towards him. “Algernon Charles Swinburne.”_

_“Ah,” he smiled. Of course she would be drawn to that without even knowing why. “Victorian era poet. Quite rebellious for his time. His poetry was a blatant rejection of conservative values.”_

_When she was in front of him again, she handed him the book and then moved to sit on his desk, legs spread enough that his own body would fit between her knees. He could smell the faint traces of sweet lavender on her skin, the bits of sandalwood clinging to his shirt mixing with her essence. If he hadn’t tasted her last night, if he hadn’t known what it was like to drown inside her body, he might have been embarrassed at the way his own body responded to her, at how his heartbeat sped up, at how his stomach clinched in anticipation...at the way his sex hardened, throbbed. But, he_ had _been inside her so he was not embarrassed. In fact, he was quite proud of the restraint he was showing._

_“So what I’m hearing,” Abbie said, bringing him out of his musings, “is that this Algernon guy wrote a lot of sex poetry.”_

_“Indeed.”_

_She leaned back, hands spread behind her to steady her. She put a small foot on his thigh, shifting part of his robe so even more of his skin was exposed. She smiled at him, lifting the corners of her mouth until she looked absolutely bewitching._

_“Dr. Ichabod Crane, hard ass and History professor, is a closet freak. Who knew?”_

_Ichabod coughed on air. “I am not a freak.”_

_“Last night tells a different story.”_

_He was pretty sure his face was beet red, but Crane managed to not run from the room. She smiled at him again, plump lips curving up._

_“You should read one to me.”_

_He, again ridiculously distracted by her mouth, blinked._

_“Come again?”_

_“Soon, I hope,” she mumbled under her breath._

_He lifted an eyebrow but didn’t comment._

_“Read to me,” she repeated. “Show me what it is about this poetry that makes you love it.”_

_He picked up the book that was in his lap and placed it on the side of her. He didn’t need to read from the book._

_Ichabod grabbed Abbie by the waist and pulled her from the chair back onto his lap. This time, she straddled him, knees bracketing his hips. For a long moment he didn’t speak. He let his fingers roam along her face, caressing the smooth skin of her cheek, gliding across until he grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger. She stared back at him, chestnut eyes waiting, curious._

“Lying asleep between the strokes of night, I saw my love lean over my sad bed, pale as the duskiest lily’s leaf or head…”

_His voice was barely a whisper as he started the poem. She didn’t move away, only letting herself be close enough that she could grab at his arms if she wanted, that only a roll of her hips could settle her more comfortably on where he had been almost uncomfortably hard since the day he’d laid eyes on her. He let one hand settle loosely on her waist and the other circled her neck._

“...Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite; too wane for blushing and too warm for white…”

_He flexed his fingers on her throat and brought her a little closer, enough that he could feel the flutter of breath from her slightly parted mouth._

“...But perfect-coloured without white or red. And her lips opened amorously and said-I wist not what, saving one word-Delight.”

_He felt her shiver in his lap and he drug his eyes up from where they had settled on her heaving chest. Her eyes were blown, the brown irises smaller than they were only mere minutes ago, the black of her pupils much more prominent. He kept one hand relaxed around her neck and easily unbuttoned a button on the shirt with his other hand. He unfastened another._

_Her breasts were visible to him now, the top swell of the luscious mounds peeking out from the starched fabric of the shirt._

“And all her face was honey to my mouth, and all her body was pasture to mine eyes.”

_He had kept going, another button undone, and then another, until the shirt was wide open and hanging off her shoulders. She was naked before him, the question of if she had been wearing knickers finally answered. She wasn’t._

“The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire…”

_He thumbed her right nipple, rubbing until it hardened. He moved to the other one and she arched into his hand, her breathing a little choppier._

_“_...The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south…”

_He passed the tips of his fingers along her belly, creating a trail south, to where she’d made herself bare for him, to where she could spread her legs and he knew she’d be wet and hot for him._

“...the bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs. And glittering eyelids of my soul’s desire.”

 _When Ichabod slid a finger, two, into Abbie’s body, she gasped, throwing her head back. She was warmer than he had anticipated,_ wetter _, dripping down his hand. He fingered her languidly, scissoring in her pussy, just enough that she started to buck against him. She curved her body so that she could wrap her arms around his neck and placed her lips at his ear._

_“It’s your voice,” she spoke, her own voice low as it vibrated against him. “It’s your voice, the reason I’m so wet.” She rocked on his hand and Ichabod added another finger, stifling a groan._

_“The poem you spoke was beautiful, sexy.  But your voice, the way you said it….that’s the reason I want you so bad.”_

_Then she kissed him. She slanted her mouth over his and gave him e_ verything _, lips and tongue and teeth. Her kiss was crushing, coaxing from him more passion, more desire, than this tiny blip of a woman should be allowed._

_He dragged the shirt the rest of the way from her arms and she busied herself getting him out of his robe--untying the sash, pulling it away from his body--all the while continuing to hypnotize him with her mouth. Then, abruptly she pulled away._

_“Abigail…”_

_“I want you inside of me, Crane. I want your dick so bad.”_

_It was as if a yellow caution sign had turned to green. Ichabod lifted her hips enough to shove his boxers down his thighs and then he sprang free, heavy and solid and hard like steel. He slid into her._

_This feeling was unparalleled. She was like silk, wrapping around his dick so beautifully. She felt like the sun and the stars and the moon, like she had created galaxies with the power in her pussy  and she was allowing him but a glimpse of what she could do. Her hands gripped his shoulders and her body gripped his and he was sure it wouldn’t be long before his brain short circuited._

_She set a rhythmic pace, up down, up, down, holding on to him to steady herself. He let his hands roam: handfuls of breasts in his palms; memorizing the deep curve of her waist through tactile perception; giving in to the frankly carnal desire to slap her ass. He did it once._

_“Oh shit.”_

_Twice._

_“Fuck!”_

_Three times._

_“Oh, fuck me, Crane.”_

_Then he took the control from her. He grabbed her waist and began fucking into her, snapping his hips up to meet her, again, again, “Shit, Crane,” harder and harder._

_“Tell me,” he said, only the tick in his jaw belying the notion that this was not an ordinary conversation. “Tell me how good I feel inside of you.”_

_“So good.” she sang, moaning over the sound of her wet body milking him, over the clap, clap, clap of her ass cheeks meeting his thighs. She reached down and touched her middle finger to her clit. “Baby you feel so good.”_

_At this point, Ichabod had only seen Abbie come apart twice, but already he noted the tell-tale signs. Her hands tightened on whatever they held, in this case the space between his neck and shoulder, holding him into place. Her eyes closed and before her dark lashes fluttered against her face, Ichabod saw sex-blown eyes, irises lost on a haze of lust. Her body tightened, practically squeezing him, and he knew it was just a matter of…”_

_“Fuuuuck,” she moaned loudly, “Crane!”_

_Goodness, he had never loved his name more._

_“Abbie,” he groaned. “You are so fucking beautiful. Come for me.”_

_“I’m so close, Crane.”_

_“Come for me, Abbie.”_

_He reached down and grabbed two handfuls of her ass, spreading her cheeks so that he sunk in_ just a little bit _deeper. It’s what did it for her. She arched her back and came, creaming all over his dick. And it was that overly wet feeling soaking his thighs that triggered his own orgasm. He stilled her rocking hips and slammed into her, once, twice, once more, before pulsing hot into her._

_They stay that way for a long moment, Abbie’s cheek pressed into his shoulder, his hands still holding on to her derriere. All was quiet except for the sounds of their labored breathing._

_“So,” Abbie mumbled, voice hoarse from so much moaning. “Does that get me an A?”_

_Ichabod could hear the grin in her voice and knew that she was teasing. But instead of taking the bait, he lifted his head to press a kiss to her forehead and told her truthfully,_

_“Oh, Treasure, you can have anything you want from me.”_

 

_************_

 

August 2012

 

_Abbie was annoyed. She stood in the hallway on the 2nd floor of the Thomas Paine History building. The building was not named for the Founding Father but instead for some other rich white guy that had given the school a shit ton of money. For some reason, that made Abbie even more annoyed._

_She paced from one end of the hall to the other, clutching the paper in her hand, frowning at the orange ink comments written in neat script in the margins. She scowled every time she passed a particular door. The placard on the side of the door read_ Ichabod T. Crane, Ph. D, History Department.

_Abbie rolled her eyes. Dr. Ichabod fucking Crane, sanctimonious piece of…_

_“Miss Mills.”_

_Abbie startled at the sound of her name, smooth on the velvet tongue of her professor. She twirled around, the flouncy yellow dress she wore brushing against her thighs. Another boy from her class, Ryan something or other, was exiting his office. He gave her a nod and a quick smile before hefting his bag higher on his shoulder and throwing out a “Thanks, Dr. Crane,” before rounding the corner._

_Abbie turned back around to face her History professor, pausing as she noted the expression on his face. This look was not new. She had caught him staring before with a sort of penetrating gaze. It was like he was_ studying _her, she had no other way to describe it. She took the time to do a little studying on her own._

 _Not a few people had a crush on Dr. Crane and, begrudgingly, Abbie could admit to understanding the attraction. He was tall and whipcord lean, but there seemed to live a sort of strength in the lank of his limbs, something that seemed only_ just _restrained by the snazzy shirts and ties he always wore. He was smart; one does not get degrees from Oxford, Brown, and Yale and not be intelligent. And there were enough movies and books that showed how much young women loved a man who could tell them things they didn’t know. He was also attractive, his visage kind and appealing and punctuated by the bluest eyes Abbie had ever seen not staring back at her from a  television screen. None of that, though, took away from the fact that Abbie thought he was a fucking douchebag._

_“Could I have a moment of your time, Dr. Crane?”_

_“Yes, of course.”_

_He moved from the frame of the door in order to allow her entry. She walked past him, noting that she just barely reached his shoulders, even with the cute sandals she wore that added inches to her height. His office smelled warm, comforting, like leather and toffee. There was another scent, something distinctly_ him, _something that Abbie wouldn’t admit she had taken notice of._

_“What can I do for you, Miss Mills?”_

_Abbie looked down at the paper she’d been holding in her hand, suddenly mad all over again. She waved the paper near his face._

_“Well, you can explain to me how these ‘comments’,” she used her hands to air quote, “are supposed to help me as a student. They are disrespectful and you, honestly, sound like a pretentious piece of-”_

_His raised eyebrow cut her off._

_“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “That was also disrespectful. But what is this?” She held up her quiz and read off,_

_“‘...your tongue-in-cheek responses to legitimate historical queries won’t get you very far in this class.’”_

_  
_ _When she met his gaze, he was_ studying _her again, eyes intent. For a moment, Abbie was  sure he could see_ through _her, to the core of her, to the strange unsteady beat of her heart every time she saw him or at the vise that often gripped her lungs every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 9 to 9:50._

_“‘This question has no basis in fact,’” Crane recited her answer from memory, arms crossed over his chest. “‘How are we expected to continue to read, discuss, and celebrate a group of men-and I say this loosely-whose claim to fame was killing and displacing the people who had already settled in this place, all for spices and with the justification that they were better than the “savages” who lived there.’”_

_Moving away from the door, Crane unfurled his arms and plucked the short answer quiz from her hand. Abbie made no move to protest; she was still flabbergasted._

_“You remember verbatim what I wrote?”_

_He waited until he sat at the edge of his desk, crossing his long legs, before answering._

_“Other than the fact that I have an eidetic memory-”_

_Abbie rolled her eyes. Of course he did._

_“-your response was memorable.”_

_“An answer I stick by.”_

_“I’m sure you do.”_

_Abbie was sure his tone was_ just _on the other side of mocking._

_“And it is an eloquent answer, one that has merit and bears exploring. In a sense, the more I explore my love for this country and teach students who, like you, open my eyes to other perspectives, I am inclined to agree with you.”_

_“So what prompted this comment?”_

_He gave her a shrug that might have been nonchalant if Abbie wasn’t convinced he walked around with a stick up his ass._

_“While I understand, that isn’t what I asked. You didn’t respond to the question I asked and the manner in which you responded was rather insolent.”_

_Abbie’s eyes blazed. “Insolent? So we aren’t allowed to challenge you?”_

_“Yes, you are. I welcome it. There is, though, a way to do it that encourages dialogue. My quizzes aren’t one of them.”_

_Abbie’s eyes narrowed and she placed her hands on her hips. He wasn’t wrong, she knew. She could understand the why of what he was saying. That didn’t mean she had to like it. Or him. Especially as he sat there looking so unruffled._

_Being in his presence was..disconcerting. On the one hand, she was_ irked _by him._ _He was so smart he was arrogant about it and he often- wittingly or not, Abbie was didn't know-made his students feel like bumbling idiots. And she knew he knew he was fine. You didn’t look like that and talk like that (all deep timbred and sexy British accent) and not know the effect you had on women. He was a prick, quite frankly._

_But then, there were moments like this that she couldn’t explain, where he looked at her like he wanted to know her, all of her. She was always hot around him, like right now. She wanted nothing more than to be out of her dress and, she wouldn’t be opposed, naked on his mammoth of a desk._

_That thought came unbidden and Abbie felt her cheeks flame, sure he could read the thoughts on her face. While she had acknowledged, whether she wanted to or not, he was good-looking, she'd never had a full on thought of being naked with him. And it was ALL fucking ridiculous because he was her professor!_

_“Fine,” she grumbled and turned, ready to leave._

_“Miss Mills?”_

_She closed her eyes at the sound of her name when he said it, soft, like a caress. She turned back to him._

_“Yes, Dr. Crane?”_

_His eyes bore into hers. “I don’t want you to feel stifled in my classroom. You are one of the most brilliant students I have had in some time. You never fail to catch my attention with your insight. Be mindful of how you do it, but continue to challenge me.”_

_Abbie couldn’t be sure, and she never seemed to be around him, but that sounded faintly like an invitation. An invitation to do more than voice her opinions on the founding of America. It was an invitation that had come across as a faintly sexual proposal. Especially when he ran those azure eyes down the length of her. It was a quick once over, but thorough, and not quite subtle enough that she missed it. Her body responded, heat flushing her to the very core of her. Her nipples pebbled, pushing painfully against the soft fabric of her dress. She knew that when she got home and peeled her panties off, they’d be_ soaked.

Abbie! _She yelled at herself._ He. Is. Your. Professor. 

_“Thanks,” she said to him, proud that her voice managed not to sound breathy. “I’m gonna…” she gestured in the general direction of the door._

_“Yes, of course.”_

_He stood abruptly and brushed past her to open the door. She started out of the office._

_“Until Friday, Miss Mills,” he said softly as she passed him._

_She didn’t shiver when he said it. She didn’t turn back to look at him before she walked towards the stairs. And she definitely wasn’t looking forward to Friday, either._

 


	3. III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern day interactions.

 

III.

_“But what is the heart, madame? It's worth less than people think. It's quite accommodating, It accepts anything. You give it whatever you have, it's not very particular. But the body... Ha! That's something else again! It has a cultivated taste, as they say, it knows what it wants. A heart doesn't choose, and one always ends up by loving.” -Colette_

 

_August 2016_

The last time Abbie saw her father, she had been 10 years old and he had just gotten back from a business trip to Atlanta. She remembered because she had been chewing on taffy when she saw him walk out of the door for the last time and he always, always got her and Jenny taffy when he went to Atlanta. It had been about 7 in the evening: _Wheel of Fortune_ was playing on the old floor model television in the living room. Jenny was playing with dolls in the corner and Abbie, she was trying not to listen to the screams coming from the back bedroom. They were _loud_ that day, louder than usual, raucous sounds drifting in and cutting into Pat Sajak's easy monotone. After the second time Jenny looked up from her dolls, Abbie grabbed the remote and turned the volume up to blasting.

That did nothing, though, when he stormed out into the living room and both Jenny and Abbie jumped at the thundering sound of his boots stomping along the hardwood floors. It didn’t do anything either when her mother followed after him, hands waving, and doing what seemed to be a mix of both yelling and crying, of “you’re a no good mother fucker” and “please don’t leave me.” He left. He walked out of the front door, slamming it so hard that Jenny started _sobbing_ and Abbie’s heart starting pounding so quickly she thought it might jump out of her chest. He left and he did not come back.

Three years later, she watched with tired eyes, practically disembodied, as she was pulled from her bedroom, Jenny trailing her with tears streaming down her face, clothes stuffed hastily into duffle bags. In front of them had been a tall, thin white woman with a shock of red hair who’d tried to soothingly tell them that it’d only be for a while, that their mother just needed time to get help, that before they knew it, they’d be back in their homes, in their princess beds, right down the hall from their mama. They never were again.

Six months later, Mrs. Jones was but a blip in their memory, and a year later, so was Mrs. Mitchell. Then, Abbie remembered there being Mike, a cute boy in her class whose parents had abruptly decided to move and then Terrence who broke it off with her when someone prettier and thinner and a little less broken had sauntered past him. Rashad was around just long enough that Abbie had thought she might _finally_ get to go to a school dance but then she and Jenny had to leave Ms. Wilkerson. That was okay, though, because Ms. WIlkerson had three other foster children and a boyfriend who _leered_ , standing outside of the bathroom when she showered and attempting to come into her room once lights and morals were out.

There was only she and Jenny, her beautiful shadow, always beside her, always a little distant, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then, when she was nearly 18, and Jenny was 14, the other shoe did drop, finally placing them on two solid feet.  It came in the steadying hand of August Corbin, a man with eyes that were too watchful, a smile too knowing, and conversations that attempted to go too deep when they sat at his kitchen table with warm pie and cold ice cream. With him came, Joe, staunch and supportive, more mature and sure of himself that any 15 year old had any right to be.  On Thursday, three days after she had literally bumped into her past, she decided she needed the constant presence of her little sister, the quiet surety of her pseudo brother, the stable existence of her foster father.

After her last class, she drove out to Jekyll Island, a small island city some 40 odd minutes away, where Corbin had moved after all three of them had started college, both she and Jenny at Evanswood and Joe at Armstrong Atlantic State University in Savannah. In the small used Jeep that Corbin had gotten her as a high school graduation gift, she made headway over the bridge, the vast, seemingly endless ocean sparkling in the late afternoon sun. Abbie loved this drive, loved the calming quality of the waves. It would make more sense to be afraid of the destructiveness of the waters, of something that had no allegiance to her, to anything but its nature. But, in a sense, she admired the Atlantic: its openness, its intolerance for the wims of mere humans, its inability to be anything other than what it was intended to be.

Soon, she was pulling up to Corbin’s house, a beautiful cottage situated only miles away from the beach. It looked smaller on the outside, a squat structure painted a milky cream with pale gray trimming and posts. Inside was a different matter. It was a large house: open concept, gleaming hardwood floors, huge windows that made lamps redundant until nightfall. One thing Abbie had learned to love about small town Georgia was how absolutely colorful it was, vibrant green grass and endless blue sky and red clay. There were no paintings, no portraits, that could quite do it justice.

Abbie parked her car next to Jenny’s motorcycle. Joe didn’t start classes until the following week and she saw him parked next to Corbin’s police cruiser. She could hear the Motown drifting from inside, Diana Ross asking her boy to come see about her. It made Abbie smile, the reminder that her white, by-the-book cop foster dad had a little soul in him. She grabbed the bottle of wine from the passenger seat, locked up her Jeep, and let herself into the condo.

The picture that greeted her was shocking in its comfort. Corbin stood at the stove, dressed plainly in a t-shirt and loose sweatpants, a red kitchen towel slung over one shoulder. He was tall, body doughy from too many sweets, too much pie. He had wavy hair that’d gone completely white and he had a nice face: dark blue eyes and thick eyebrows and a salt and pepper mustache. He seemed to be sauteeing something in a skillet, from the smell of it peppers and onions. Joe was at the counter chopping lettuce for a salad, just as tall as his father, contenance just as warm. He was dressed in board shorts and a gray muscle shirt, arms exposed and way more muscular than protective Abbie seemed to think was necessary. He was a good looking kid--man now, Abbie amended--blue eyed and brown-haired with a faint dusting of hair framing his mouth. They were both tanned from life in the southern sun.

At the table, with textbook and notebooks propped open, was Jenny. She was in a simple yellow t-shirt dress, the color dazzling on the smooth toffee brown of her skin. Her body was long, much taller than her big sister, lithe, her curves more delicate than Abbie’s; her hair was a little longer, with more curl to the coils. Abbie sighed, smiling easily when Jenny turned her big amber eyes on her and grinned. She was home.

There were greetings all around, hugs from Corbin and Joey and then Jenny, who Abbie squeezed a little bit tighter, a little bit longer, and when they pulled apart, Jenny’s expression had changed. She put her hands, glittering with rings, on Abbie’s cheeks and looked at her deeply.

“Everything okay, Abs?”

Abbie gave her another smile, a little bit shaky. “Yeah,” she nodded. “Yeah, I’m good now.”

“Settle in,” Corbin said, already taking the wine opener to the bottle. “You and Jenny catch up. Joe and I are handling dinner.”

He placed a glass of wine in front of Abbie and one beside Joe who picked his up to take a quick sip before slicing into a fat red tomato.

“Where’s my glass?” Jenny questioned.

“You’re not 21 yet,” Joe said. “You know the rules.”

“Yes, but I’m in college.”

“And I’m an officer of the law,” Corbin reminded them. “I can’t go around supplying alcohol to minors. I’m the example.”

 _I’m the example_ , Jenny mouthed along with him and Abbie laughed. When Corbin turned back to the stove, she slid her glass over to Jenny who took a huge gulp, smiling back appreciatively.

  
Abbie pulled a notebook out of her own bag, this for a class she was taking on white collar crime, and she attempted to study. It should have been easy. Though this was not the house she first lived in when they had moved in with the Corbins, she still felt a level of comfort there, because it was where Jenny called home. The smell of vegetables cooking in butter for a sauce and chicken seasoned with southern spices was reminiscent of Abbie’s early years, before she’d known what it meant to be walked away from. The studying wasn’t easy, though, and she was pissed because all she wanted to do was focus!

Unwarranted and severely unwanted, her mind drifted, conjuring an image of she and Sophie earlier that day, laughing and talking in the university’s cafeteria; and Ichabod Crane, sitting several tables away, staring at her with an expression on his face she still couldn’t figure out.

They’d been eating when Sophie had taken a bite of her turkey burger, chewed thoughtfully, and said,

“He’s staring at you.”

For her part, Abbie had been lost in her pasta alfredo, fettuccine coiled around her fork, poised for her mouth.

“What?”

Sophie had nodded to a place to the left of Abbie, a slight frown on her face.

“Professor British Asshole. He walked in about ten minutes ago, found you immediately, and he’s been watching you ever since.”

“What do you mean?”

Abbie had not let on that she’d known. He’d looked good today, in a pair of dove gray pants and a stark white shirt, the top button unfastened and showing his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing every time he swallowed. He was wearing a navy blazer, a silver and white pocket square sitting in the left pocket. When he’d first come in, Abbie had watched him get in line to grab food before walking over to one of the tables the professors sat at when they decided to slum it. He’d walked with the sure gait of someone confident in themselves, who knew what they looked like to others. She knew that he got much of his wardrobe tailored and it showed, the way the clothes hung clean off his shoulders, and how the lines of his pants were fitted to conform to his body...He’d looked _really_ good in those pants.

But she couldn’t tell Sophie she knew because how could she explain that, Coffee Shop incident notwithstanding, the air _changed_ when he was in the room, became both settled and more charged? How could she tell Sophie that she was hyper aware of him, that when he had crossed the door’s threshold, her hands had started tingling and her stomach had bottomed. Abbie could have even _sworn_ she could _smell_ him, the scent she’d discovered was sandalwood: warm, a little woodsy, wholly powerful. Verbalizing all of this about a man she hated would probably have Sophie trying to stage an intervention so instead, Abbie played dumb.

“What do you mean?” Sophie questioned. “I mean what I just said. Dr. Crane is here and he’s staring at you.”

“Hmmm,” she hummed.

Abbie had taken a bite of her pasta. And then she had turned her head and found him indeed staring back at her, azure eyes focused. She didn’t know how she could see the color so clearly from across the room but even at that distance, they were arresting.

The world had stopped. Stars had aligned. Angels had fucking sang and Abbie was _pissed_ that he still had the power to wreak emotional havoc on her. To the layperson, he might have looked to simply be lost in his own world, unbothered in the room of 18, 19, and 20 year olds. Abbie knew that not to be the case. He was watching her in a way she had forgotten he did. He was analyzing, like she was a thing to be learned, to be understood.  He looked at her like he was in awe of her, like he admired her, like she was something to be revered.

The memory was interrupted when she heard her name being called and she blinked, looking up to find them all watching her.

“Abbie, are you okay?” Joe asked

“Yeah,” Jenny mumbled. “We just called your name like six times.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? I’m sorry.” She took a sip of her wine. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind. You know, first week of classes and all that.”

Joe gave her a cautious once over before nodding. Jenny frowned, eyes thoughtful, but she didn’t say anything more, going back to her books. Corbin didn’t say anything either, but Abbie could feel his eyes on her. He’d concede. For now.

Not long after, Corbin had Joe turn down the Temptations that had begun playing on the record player and Abbie and Jenny set the table. They’d fixed a small feast, roasted chicken with onions and peppers, rice with brown gravy, garlic green beans, salads, and rolls from Sweetie’s bakery closer in town. They dug in. While they ate and laughed, Abbie was able to live in the present surrounded by three of the people who just might know her best.

It was just after 8 when Abbie packed her things to leave, complete with a to-go plate of food for Sophie.

She hugged Joe first, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Let me know when you make it to Savannah, okay?”

“Abbie…” he whined.

“You’re grown, yes, I know. It’s only a couple hours away, yes, I know. I worry. Let me know when you make it in.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He squeezed her tighter and planted a kiss on her forehead.

“And you’ll tell me what’s going on, right? If you need help figuring it out.”

Abbie stepped back from his embrace, startled. “What?”

He looked down at her, sure in his assessment. “Whatever’s got you in your head. I know you’ll probably figure it all out, but if you can’t, promise me you’ll talk to me. Or Jenny. Or dad. Sophie. Just someone.”

She didn’t know why, but she felt a prick behind her eyes, the tell of impending tears. She always somehow forgot just how observant he was. She blinked them away.

“I’m fine,” she told him. “But thanks.”

Corbin gave her just as big of a hug and this time, she held onto him tighter, for longer. He didn’t speak on how she had spaced out earlier. He just hugged her and she found strength in it, a brief solace in the smell of food clinging to his clothes,  the smell of his cologne.

“I love you, you know that, right.”

“I know,” she responded. “Ditto.”

Jenny walked her out. There was still some light in the sky, faint traces of pearl orange and pastel pink mixing with the navy velvet of the night. She could hear the animals of the islands rustling in the shrubbery, frogs and lizards and squirrels that fought for dominance in the palm trees, the bushes that lined the sidewalk. Jenny gripped her hand when they hit the bottom of the staircase and Abbie let her, allowing herself to be led down the pathway to the cars.

“So are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” Jenny asked this pointedly, hand still in Abbie’s, expression concerned.

“Jenny, nothing’s…”

Jenny lifted one perfect eyebrow and Abbie stopped.

“I’m fine, Jen,” she said instead.

“Yeah, I heard you telling Joe. But I don’t believe you.”

“You have no reason not to.”

Jenny shrugged her shoulder delicately. “Maybe not. But, all the same, I think something’s up.”

“Because you’re dramatic.”

“And you aren’t. You’re steadfast and snarky and uptight, but you’re not dramatic. Staring listlessly out of windows isn't your thing; it’s mine. So what’s in your head, big sis?”

“Hmm,” Abbie hummed, and shifted her bag up her shoulder to reach up to touch Jenny’s hair. She pushed a flyaway strand behind her ear. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

“That’s what you said the last time and then you took a semester off of school.”

Abbie paused in her ministrations, hand stilling midair. She locked eyes with her sister, frowning, and Jenny stared back, unrepentant.

“You can blink those beautiful brown eyes at August and Joe and get them not to pry, but it won’t work on me. I’ve had almost twenty years to become immune to them.”

“I’m the big sister. You do know that right?”

“Yeah. Maybe it’s time you let someone take care of you now.”

Abbie let out another hum and then pulled her little sister in for a hug. “Be careful getting back to Evanswood, okay. Let me know when you make it to your dorm.”

Jenny looked down at her before sighing, letting it go. “Yes, ma’am.”

Abbie gave a tiny smile.

“I love you, Abs.”

“You too,” she responded.

She ignored Jenny’s last imploring look and got into her car, honking the horn once before driving down the street.

 

Sophie was still awake when she walked into their apartment, a small two bedroom duplex in walking distance from the south side of the campus. Sophie was curled on their huge orange couch under a throw blanket watching _Love and Hip Hop: Atlanta._

Their living room was an eclectic mix of furniture: orange couch as the focal point and two overstuffed arm chairs in tan on either side. They had beechwood side tables decorated with vases and flowers Sophie changed weekly, giving the room a soft floral smell. A matching coffee table with neatly spread out magazines and several candles occupied the middle of the room. Everything was brought together with navy print throw pillows and two tall floor lamps in the same navy flanking the large television planted directly across from the couch. Many of their classmates commented on how put together their apartment was for a 23 and a 22 year old, but Sophie’s parents were loaded—first generation Mexican immigrants who owned several restaurants along the Georgia coast—and as long as she maintained her scholarship, they covered her expenses. Abbie lived in the place almost rent free.

“How was dinner?” Sophie asked after Abbie had placed her keys on the hook by the door.

“Good. Corbin sent you a plate back.”

“Yes,” Sophie moaned. “That man is a God send.”

Abbie nodded in agreement. She placed the foil wrapped plate in the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water before dropping down on the sofa. Sophie moved her feet enough to allow Abbie the space to sit down and then put her feet in her lap. They watched TV in silence, losing themselves in the antics of men and women far too old to be airing drama in front of cameras. Abbie had begun dozing off when Sophie called her name.

“Abbie?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you doing okay?”

Abbie actively thought about it, a quick snapshot of her day running through her head. “Mostly.”

“Okay.” There was a long pause. Then, “Wanna go out tomorrow night? Get your mind off things? You know that speakeasy that just opened up? We could go there. I’m sure we won't see anyone from EU because there probably won’t be any Migos playing.”

Abbie laughed and patted her friend’s leg. “Let’s do it. It could be fun.” She stood up and started towards her room.

“See you tomorrow, Soph.”

“Good night, baby girl. I love you.”

She waved a hand. “Ditto.”

Abbie didn’t look back so she couldn’t see the sad smile on her friend’s face.

 

************

 

_August 2016_

Ichabod had never been to a speakeasy before. He had gone to boarding schools in various parts of England during his childhood and eventually Oxford before deciding to board a plane to study more in America. In between those years, he had not a lot to do with clubs or the like and before he left, speakeasies had not been a wholly popular pastime.

What he had learned living in small towns, at least this one, was that though many of the elders held views that were not only antiquated but also harmful, there were many young people who found ways to live on their own terms despite that. He figured this speakeasy was a way to create that tradition away from prying eyes. He was intrigued by the idea, by how they seemed to be returning to fashion. In a time that was bustling with excess, revisiting lifestyles of old, of simpler times when there wasn’t so much access, must be far too tempting. After all, there was desire in the forbidden, a magnetism that came from hiding, from doing things in secret.

His cellular device sounded then and Ichabod placed his glass of Macallan to the side of him and picked up the phone to read the text missive.

Van Brunt: _Picking you up in 20! Don’t chicken out._

Ichabod frowned briefly, contemplating his response before deciding not to at all. Earlier in the afternoon, Van Brunt had stopped by his office and insisted that they go to this speakeasy as  a sort of celebration of his return (“My best buddy is back in this po-dunk town; the ladies have been waiting.”) He wasn’t sure how true any of that was; he’d been far too busy during his first few years at Evanswood University to do more than take a woman on a date every so often. And then Abigail had come along and well…

However, he had missed his friend, he’d admit. Abraham was his total opposite: loud, boisterous, way too into appearances; but he was the first person he had befriended in the town, was quite supportive in whatever Ichabod got too passionate about, and never minded his small British eccentricities.

He was already prepared to go, actually quite excited for a night out. He had not done much since he had been back stateside, spending the bulk of his time getting his cabin back in habitable order and preparing for a year of teaching. During his-- _sabbatical_ \--Ichabod had done a little teaching, mostly guest lectures at Oxford and a longer stint at the University of Edinburgh for a year. The instructor of early modern history, after having been found in a compromising position with a student, had been dismissed and they hadn’t been able to find a permanent replacement in enough time. That had been quite a wake up call for Ichabod, a reminder that he had indeed made the appropriate choice when he decided to leave and sever all contact with Abigail Mills.

If her reaction to him on Monday and yesterday were any indication, she did not share in that perception. Never had a woman been so cold to him, icing out any attempt at contact before he could make it. He had not seen her since bumping into her at the Coffee Shop until he and Van Brunt had ventured into the school’s mess hall the day before. She and Sophie, one of the few young woman Ichabod had ever seen her with during her first year on campus, had walked in and she had been a vision in what was referred to as a romper, a sort of one piece short set. It had been floral, the red of the base material complementing the brown of her skin, making her look soft and flushed and glowing. She had made frustratingly brief eye contact with him and for a lone moment, Ichabod had thought he’d seen a glimpse of _something_ , of an emotion from years before. Alas, it had lasted but a minute and then she’d staunchly refused to meet his gaze again.

He supposed her response to him made sense. Rather, he was well aware that she had every right to think him an ass. It hadn’t been right, leaving her as he had, not saying goodbye. But, if he hadn’t, if he had told her his plans to return to his familial home in Scotland, if he had stayed until she had awaken that last morning, he knew he would never have gotten on that plane. Her ire was well received. He would just have to deal with it.

He’d just poured himself another scotch when he heard the loud sound of Van Brunt’s car horn and he could imagine the man leaning on the leather steering wheel, letting the racket go as loud and for as long as it would. Ichabod stared at the heavens--wondering what, pray tell, had he gotten himself into--before finishing off his drink in one gulp and walking outside, making sure to lock the cabin up behind him.

He slid into Van Brunt’s vehicle, a sleek, black, new-model Jaguar convertible. The top was down so they could feel the warm night air.

“This is new,” he mumbled, glancing around at the leather, running his hand along the dashboard. “Nice.”

“Thanks, man.” He put the car in gear before looking over at him and shaking his head.

“What?” Ichabod questioned.

“Nothing, Crane.” He chuckled. “Just looking at your outfit. Only you can get away with wearing something like that.”

Ichabod looked down at himself. He thought he looked quite nice in a pair of trousers that were a not quite navy blue and a pale blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, paired with tan suspenders and a dark blue paisley bowtie.  He’d gotten a haircut earlier in the afternoon and his hair waved on top of his head, just under his ears.

“You don’t like it?.”

“Yeah, I do.” Van Brunt turned the car around and eased down the dirt road back towards town. “It fits you. Everyone is so conservative around here. It’s nice to have you back and spicing shit up again.”

Abraham was dressed simply in a pair of khaki pants, fitted nicely to the long length of him, and a seersucker button down, the material nearly the same color as his blue gray eyes. He had a head of blonde hair, the style perpetually ruffled, as if he constantly ran his hands through it.

“I’m not here to do any spicing up of anything,” Ichabod deflected. ”I just want to teach, possibly obtain tenure, write a few textbooks.”

“Of course you do.” He fiddled with the radio dials, stopping at a modern music station. A thumping bass filled the car and he turned it down enough that they could still have a conversation.

Despite that sounding suspiciously like a jab, Ichabod ignored it. “And what of you, Abraham? I’m still so surprised that you have settled here.”

Van Brunt’s shrug was overly casual.

“I haven’t quite settled. I’d gotten a job at Boston University a few years back and was all geared up and ready to move to a city when my mom got sick. Cancer. My dad passed when I was a kid so I’m all she’s got. I couldn’t leave her to deal with this on her own so I got the job at EU. Mom’s still hanging on and I’m grateful so…”

“I’m so sorry, Abraham.”

“Don’t be. Like I said, mom’s still here. And EU’s a great school so it’s working out.”

Ichabod nodded, understanding that the older man didn’t want to talk more about it. In the years that they had cultivated a friendship, Ichabod had never bothered to ask why the man stayed around. He was older, Abraham, and Ichabod realized that everyone had their own stories. Instead, they increased the volume a little and readied themselves for a guys’ night out.

 

The speakeasy masqueraded as a candy shop, _Candy Land_ written on the window in curled striped script. A young woman in a traditional candy striper uniform and a huge bulking man in a matching shirt and black trousers stood behind a counter, rows and rows of candy on display. The young woman smiled widely when they walked through the door, blinking up at the both of them coyly.

“How y’all doing, fellas?”

“I’m doing great,” Van Brunt responded, leaning over the counter, smooth grin etched on his face. She flipped her long dark blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Yes, I see.” Her own smile widened. “And what about you handsome?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Ichabod addressed pleasantly.

Her eyes brightened. “Ohhh, British.”

“Yes, well…” he ducked his head. He should probably be used to American women and their response to his accent but it always seemed to take him aback.

Van Brunt, used to it, slapped a big hand on his back and shook his head good naturedly.

“The accent comes out and we all disappear.”

“Nah,” the young woman  said, voice a little lower. “I still see you.”

Before they started a back and forth that he wouldn’t be able to pull his friend from, Ichabod cleared his throat.

“Sorry.” She didn’t take her eyes away from Van Brunt.  Ichabod got the distinct impression that she wasn’t sorry. “What can I help y’all with tonight?”

“We’ll have a dozen snickerdoodles,” Abraham answered.

“Right this way.”

 

Inside, the place was astonishing; he wasn’t sure what he was expecting but this far exceeded that. The space was enormous, with several levels. There was a wide wooden dance floor on the bottom level, a DJ set up in one corner, a full band just preparing to set up in the other. The DJ was playing records, music with enough bass to make it exciting and enough melody that one didn’t instantly get a headache when they walked in. The second level featured a plethora of seating, black leather couches that circled chrome tables, buckets on top for parties that ordered whole bottles. The third level seemed cozier with more limited seating. Aerial dancers were on either side, in sparkling black dresses, climbing up white sheets. Full bars were available on each level. It was all leather and chrome, black and silver, clearly a place to see and be seen.

“Who’d a thunk, huh, Crane?” Van Brunt muttered. “Something like this in small town Georgia?”

“Indeed.”

They moved up to the second level where Abraham ambled over to the bar and agreed to pay the overly decent sum to get a table for their relaxation and have a bottle of Macallan sent over.

“Are you sure this is necessary?” Ichabod groused as the man handed his credit card to the woman behind the bar..

Abraham just shrugged. “Do as the Romans.”

He supposed there was no problem; for all his showboating, Van Brunt was a master investor and his money continued to grow at an exponential rate.

They moved to a booth in the middle which provided them with a vast view of the entire space below. The couches were surprisingly comfortable, the cushions deep seated and long enough to fit his frame. Soon after, a lovely brunette woman in a dress Ichabod was sure someone had painted on her brought over tongues for the ice bucket, the bottle of scotch Van Brunt had ordered, and two glasses. She placed a dish of peanuts in the middle of their table.

“Anything else I can get for you fellas?”

“Nothing, madam,” he inclined his head. “Thank you.”

Van Brunt shook his head as he busied himself opening the bottle. She beamed at the pair of them before slinking away, heels higher than he thought were strictly needed.

The music changed to something a bit more upbeat, a tad louder, so when Abraham handed him a glass so that they could toast, he had to yell:

“To you and me, Crane. Bachelors out on the town.”

“Here, here.”

Ichabod took a long, healthy swallow of the scotch and settled into the couch.

 

Ichabod knew she was beautiful. He knew it objectively. Her features were asymmetrically pleasing, her form a work of craftsmanship to be admired. He definitely knew she was beautiful subjectively. Just _picturing_ her mouth made his pants fit a little snugger. Nonetheless, when he exited the restroom and saw her standing in front of the wall length mirror that dominated the sitting area, he stopped in his tracks, stunned. She was wearing black open-toed shoes,  silver studded straps circling her delicate ankles. He followed the lines of her legs, the calves shapely, thighs supple, the sienna brown of her skin luminous in the faint light of the club. It was her dress that had him speechless: a slinky mini dress, embellished with tiny crystals, thin-strapped and sleeveless. It draped easily over her frame, not quite hugging her body, but skimming it enough that he could see every. single. curve. Her hair seemed curlier than usual, piled high on her head in a coily, kinky puff, and he longed to run his fingers through the strands, to release the coils and watch them fan across his pillow as he sank into her. He attempted to blink that image away.

Then their eyes met in the mirror, her big luminous orbs made brighter by the dark shadow and even darker liner that rimmed her eyes. She gasped, her lips parted, and Ichabod couldn’t take his eyes away from the red paint that shaded the bow shaped top lip, the full bottom lip, a mouth that was made to wrap around…

“Crane.”

The sound of his name in her soft, velvety voice had Ichabod standing straighter, absently straightening the tie at his neck. She twirled around and he noted that she was just on the other side of unsteady. Her eyes looked a bit glassy and Ichabod deduced that she probably had several drinks in her system. It would more likely explain why she hadn’t gone off running yet.

“Abigail,” he said her name softly. It was a lot quieter in this space, the music muffled by the seemingly countless number of turns it had taken to find the lavatories.

“You are…” he tried to find a word adequate enough, but when he couldn’t, he settled on, “stunning.”

She appeared taken aback by the compliment and she touched subconsciously at her face, looking down at her dress and shifting on her shoes. When she met his eyes again, she seemed a little more settled.

“Thank you. You look pretty spiffy yourself.”

The left side of his mouth ticked up in a half smile. “Thank you.”

“I, uh,” she started. “I’m surprised you’re here. Doesn’t quite seem like your kinda place. They got speakeasies in Britain?”

“Not quite sure.” He gestured in the direction of the club. “It was Van Brunt’s idea.”

During their dalliance, he had managed to keep their courtship away from his only friend. She had, however, known that Abraham was often in his company when she was not.

“Ah,” she nodded knowingly. “The boys are back together.”

“Yes. Something like that.”

Silence descended. A man in an ill fitting suit came through the door, walking quickly to relieve himself. Two women, both in rather flattering jumpsuits, walked out the the ladies’ room, holding hands and giggling.

They were only background noise. All of his attention was trained on the woman in front of him. He could see the changes in her that he had been too dazed to notice before: how much more mature her features had gotten, still youthful in that amazing way that black women seemed to carry, but sharper, more focused; how distant she appeared, less approachable, though Ichabod knew she had always had a sort of armor up. That armor was back tenfold, bronzed, a warning sign in flashing neon lights, _stay away_ emblazoned on her person. He was not so naive to think the extra guard had nothing to do with him.

“Crane.”

“Abigail.”

They shared feeble smiles, hesitant in the midst of the obvious discomfort.

“Go ahead,” he insisted.

“I was just gonna say that I should probably get back. I’m sure Sophie’s wondering where I am.”

He tried not to show the immense disappointment he felt. “Alright.”

She moved towards the door, stepping around him. She brushed against his shoulder, immersing Ichabod in her scent, the soft smell of the sweet lavender in the lotions she used, the spicy hint of _her_ layered beneath. On impulse, he reached out and grabbed her hand. His enveloped hers, covering it completely. When she didn’t immediately snatch her hand back and slap him, Ichabod prodded her closer, pulling until she was only a breath away.  This was a complete change from their previous two interactions, and Ichabod _knew_ it was the alcohol. He would take what he could get, though. He held on to her hand, staring down at her, her nose upturned, mouth slightly parted again, breathing a _little_ shallow.

“Let me buy you a drink, Abigail.”

She sighed, glanced at her red toes, back up again. “That probably isn’t a good idea.”

“It’s just a drink.”

“It’s never just a drink, Crane.” Her words were faint.

She eased out of his grasp and with a final glance, left the room. He stared at the space for a long moment after she was gone, unsettled, and then he ran a hand across his face.

“Bloody fucking…”

He walked back out to the club.

The band was playing when he found his way back to their couch, a soft bluesy melody that brought to mind easy nights in front of the fireplace in his cabin, Abigail’s soft body wrapped around him as he regaled her with stories of his childhood, as she talked to him about her plans for her future. His smile might have been a little sad.

“Crane!” Van Brunt greeted. There was a beautiful young woman sitting beside him, her vibrant red hair framing her face, green eyes staring at his friend as if he himself had hung the moon in the sky.

“I was about to put out an APB. I thought you’d fallen in the toilet or something.”

“Nothing quite so dramatic, Abraham. Just a long line, is all.”

The other man nodded. “Hey, this is Katrina Van Tassell. Her family is from Britain too. Katrina, meet my buddy Ichabod Crane.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” he greeted, nodding his head in a slight bow.

“Nice to meet you as well.” Her smile was friendly.

“So Katrina and I were thinking of heading downstairs to dance. Come with us. The ladies are out tonight. We’ll find you someone to dance with too.”

Ichabod knew that he would continue to badger until he agreed, so he nodded. Before going, though, he poured himself a glass of the scotch, possibly fuller than he needed it to be, and followed the couple down the stairs.

The ambiance on the first level was an entirely different experience. The crowd was younger, more loaded, especially if the gentlemen at the bar next to him taking lines of shots were any indication. Van Brunt and his friend made a line for the dance floor, just as the band changed the temp of the song. He sipped his drink and watched the patrons dance, bodies filled with libations, undulating to the seductive beat of the music. Dancing in this country was more foreplay that what should be considered dancing, in the way Ichabod could see no space between one or the other, in the way arms circles waists and necks and one breathed in as the other exhaled. Ichabod wanted that. And when he saw her standing in a corner on the other side of the bar, he swallowed down the rest of his drink and maneuvered between writhing frames and stood next to her.

“Dance with me,” he said into her ear, one arm behind his back, the other extended before her. Her  stare was penetrating, searching, seeking. Whether she found it, he wasn’t sure, but she threw back the rest of the drink she was holding before taking his hand and leading him to the middle of the floor.  He’d asked her to dance but he knew she would want to control the show.

The song turned slower, _sultry_ , a sound punctuated by the smooth tinkle of the piano, the raw hum of the saxophone, the soft rumble of the drums. She turned so that her back was to him and she pressed the round curve of her back side against his front. She grabbed his right arm and circled her waist, his fingers spread wide across her belly. Ichabod was not the world’s greatest dancer, but he could follow a rhythm. He would especially be able to follow _her_ rhythm, so he let her guide him: body flush with the length of him, her hips snaking along to the music, seductive in the movements. It was if she was connected to the music, as if the sound lived in the arch of her back when she did a sexy shimmy down the front of him, pushing more insistently into his groin. The harmony made a home in the balls of her feet when he twirled her out and brought her back to him, this time so he could see her face, the half grin that settled there sensuous, a promise from years past. Tentatively, he slid both his hands behind her and placed them at the small of her back, right above her ass. His fingers flexed, longed to run over the firm flesh, wished he could cup the masterpiece in the palms of his hands. She reached up, slowly, her fingers padding up his belly, dallying on his chest, adjusting his tie before she closed her hand around the back of his neck. The other hand hovered at his face and then she fingered his beard, her nails lightly grazing the hair on his face. He pressed her even closer.

Ichabod’s senses were overloaded. She was in his arms again and she felt so good. She was graceful, soft where he was hard, growing harder. She was hot to touch, her skin feverish even through the material of her dress and he could smell the heat coming off of her, could smell the light layer of clean sweat that coated her, the result of too much whiskey and too many bodies in the enclosed space. He thought it added to the feeling, how they were jostled when they made a step too close to another couple and were forced to close even the infinitesimal amount of space between the two of them.

He was heavy with the weight of his want for her, his need. He had thought he’d left for a good reason, to keep her safe and away from trouble. But right now, he couldn’t imagine having left this feeling, having left her. It was her body, unfairly feminine. God, how he wanted her body. But it was also how she was staring at him, really staring this time, the open, wondering expression from earlier carved on her face. There was a need there, a longing he knew she would deny tomorrow, the next day, when there was no darkened room or no alcohol sending blood to their loins or no music that sounded like sex.

“Abigail,” he whispered, pleaded, though he couldn’t be sure of the question he was asking. She understood it as a kiss. She leaned up on her toes and pulled his face down to meet hers, her full lips pressing softly against his. He was man in a desert and suddenly a river lay before him. He was a man starved,  being led to a buffet.

He tasted at her lips, reacquainted himself with the shape of her, with the feel of her. He licked into her mouth, the kiss deepeniing, both of them closing their eyes in the process. There was the faintly synthetic taste of her lipstick, the subtle hint of whiskey on her tongue. There was something else sweet, like candy, and the only thing Ichabod could think that he would rather taste was _her_ , when she was spread out and open for him, her thighs bracketing his ears.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when she came to herself and pulled away from him, and yet, he was. He was even more surprised when she let out a shaky sigh, almost a sob, and rushed through the crowd of bodies to head outside. He followed after her, bursting through the door after it almost closed and hit him in the face. He paid the faux candy shop workers no mind as they called after him, only wanting to get to her. His hands came up to his head in frustration when he looked to his left and didn’t see her, the street busy with people out on the town. It couldn’t be much later than 12:30.

He turned to his right and there she was, leaning against the wall, bent at the waist. She was breathing heavily, clutching at her stomach. He walked over, slowly approaching.

“Abigail…”

“Dont!”

She looked up, brown eyes blazing with fury, with heartbreak. He stopped walking, several beats away from her, waiting.

“Crane, you don’t get to…” she paused, stood up, took a step toward him. “You don’t get to come back here and act like nothing has changed.”

“Abigail,” he tried again.

“No!” she shut him down again. “Ichabod, you left me! You snuck out of my apartment in the middle of the night and you left the fucking country! You didn’t tell me you were doing it, you didn’t tell me why, and you couldn’t even give me the courtesy of a goddamn goodbye. So you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come back and kiss me and make me feel like I wasn’t the only one in this.”

“You weren’t!” he shouted. Whatever mistakes he’d made, he didn’t want her to feel like she hadn’t been the sole recipient of his affections. Like she still wasn’t. “You knew my feelings.”

“Then why did you fucking leave?! I was devastated. I lov--” She cut herself off, chest heaving. Tears streamed down her face, water filling her eyes, tracking down her cheeks. Her lipstick was a faded red on her mouth. “You can’t…”

“Abig..”

“Abbie!”

They both turned toward the voice yelling behind them. Abbie’s friend was rushing from the building, teetering on tall red heels, her vibrant red dress shifting around her thighs with every step she took.

“Crane, I can't do this.” Abbie took another step towards him the armor in place again, anything he thought he had seen moments before neatly tucked away. “Stay away from me.”

He didn’t realize until that very moment that that was the absolute last thing he felt as if he could do.

“Treasure, I don’t know if I can do that.”

“You can.” She took a step back, eyes hard. “You did it for three years. What’s another three?”

Ichabod stepped back as if he had been slapped. Before he could recover, Sophie was beside them, rushing to put her arms around Abbie.

“Abbie, are you alright?”

She shot him a look, and if Ichabod thought Abbie hated him, this young woman abhorred his very existence.

“I’m fine,” she sniffed, straightening to full standing. She didn’t spare him another glance. “I’m fine.”

Then, Ichabod watched with a frown as she grabbed her friend’s hand and started off down the street. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t go back inside; he was sure Van Brunt was working on getting his lady friend to have a nightcap. Instead, he used his cellular phone to call for a Lyft and on his way back to the cabin, he sent out a missive, hoping she still had the same number.

_All I ever wanted to do was keep you out of harm’s way. Leaving was never about my not loving you._

He pressed send. He thought of one more message she had to know and then typed that out too.

_I’m sorry, Treasure._


	4. IV.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling romantic.

IV.

“She had waited all her life for something, and it had killed her when it found her.” -Zora Neale Hurston

 

February 2013

 _When Abbie walked into the apartment she shared with Sophie, she had not expected the other girl to be sitting at the dining room table, three dozens of flowers before her. Sophie was_ not _a morning person, and to see her up and awake before absolutely necessary was a definite cause for alarm._

_It was just after 6 and Abbie had come back from her run, having gotten a late start. So when she burst through their front door, breathing still not fully leveled, and saw Sophie at the table surrounded by flowers, she hesitated._

_“Um, hey, Soph,” she muttered, walking fully into the apartment and closing the door behind her. By other’s standards, it never got too cold in southeast Georgia, but the February wind was stiff, and Abbie took pleasure in how warm their place was._

_“What’s up with the flowers?”_

_“You tell me.” Sophie stood up, tightening her silk robe to her body, her long hair piled in a messy ponytail on her head._

_“What?” Abbie’s brows furrowed, eyeing the flowers with trepidation. “What are you talking about?”_

_“Well, I was woken up this morning at 6 a.m. because_ someone _was banging on the door. When I got up to open it,  these were sitting on the porch.”_

_“Okay.” Abbie said the word slowly. She didn’t understand why Sophie looked so upset about flowers for her. She went into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, peeking over the island. “So who sent those to you? Vic? Damien?”_

_Sophie tilted her head. “They’re for you, Abbie.”_

_Abbie paused, her water bottle several centimeters from her mouth, lips parted. Her eyes widened as she shifted her gaze from Sophie to the huge vases of flowers covering their dining room table._

_He did_ not _send flowers to her_ apartment. _He couldn’t be that bold._

_“Ummm.” Abbie rounded the kitchen island. “Does it say who they’re from?”_

_Sophie shook her head. “No. There’s only this card.”_

_She held up a envelope with her name written in his elegant script:_ _To Grace Abigail Mills, With Love._ _Abbie closed her eyes in irritation. What was she thinking?_ Of course _, he would be that bold._

_Gingerly, Abbie tooked the card from Sophie’s hand, fingering the edge of the envelope reverently. It was only then that she gave herself permission to really look at the flowers. The first vase was filled with deep red carnations in full bloom, sprinkled with baby’s breath. There was a dozen calla lillies, the pale pink flowers sitting high and bold on long, brilliant green stems. Next to them, arguably more dazzling than the others, was a large vase of birds of paradise, the orange-yellow flowers that did indeed look faintly like birds unlike anything Abbie had ever seen before._

_“Gorgeous,” she whispered, picking up one of the vases, the calla lillies, and inhaling the light fragrance. She replaced the vase, the glass hitting the table with a soft clink._

_She couldn’t see herself in that moment but she knew the smile that graced her face was nothing short of goofy; her cheeks had started to burn from the effort._

_“Anything you wanna tell me, Mills?” Sophie’s sharp voice pulled her out of her reverie._

_“No,” Abbie answered, uncertain._

_“Who are the flowers from?”_

_“No one.”_

_“Right,” Sophie nodded. “Because No One woke me up at the ass crack of dawn to drop these off for you,_ these _being a dozen each of three different types of flowers. And_ none _of them are roses, which I’m sure only about three people on the planet know you hate, apparently including No One.”_

_Sophie fixed her eyes on Abbie, and Abbie stepped back, as if that would keep her from being figured out._

_“No One also is probably the reason why I only ever see you during the two classes we have together anymore.”_

_“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” Abbie argued._

_“Where did you sleep two nights ago?” Sophie shot back._

_There was a minute where the energy between them changed, became a bit loaded. Abbie studied her friend, dusty brown skinned and chocolate eyed and beautiful. And only wanting to talk about boys who sent flowers._

_“Soph, what do you want me to say?”_

_“I just want to know why you’re keeping your boyfriend a secret.”_

_“He’s not my boyfriend,” she deflected._

_“So you do admit that you’re keeping him a secret?”?_

_Exasperated, Abbie threw up her hands. “Sophie, it’s way too early for this. I still have to shower and I want to try to make it to the Coffee Shop before class.”_

_Sophie stared long and hard at Abbie, so much so that Abbie grew apprehensive, a questioning expression on Sophie’s face that seemed, in equal parts, both upset and sympathetic._

_Abbie let herself be scrutinized, an occurrence not uncommon. With each new foster home, she had gotten the same close examination; she supposed friends needed to analyze her too. She’d thought that phase in her life with Sophie was over; after all, they had met when Sophie transferred to Booker T. Washington High three weeks into the start of their senior year. They’d been as close as Abbie could be to anyone, even deciding to move in together when they both got accepted to Evanswood University.  It seemed, however, that pity looks didn’t stop just because you tried to let a person in._

_“Alright,” Sophie said, once Abbie figured she’d found whatever flaw she was searching for. “Go ahead and shower. I’ll put these in your room.”_

_Without waiting for a response, she picked up the vase of flowers closest to her and walked past Abbie._

_Abbie watched her shoulder the bedroom door open and disappear inside before returning to grab another vase._

_“Go ahead and shower, Abs. Don’t want you not to get your coffee this morning.”_

_Abbie sighed. “Sophie.”_

_She picked up the calla lilies, pausing with the flowers in her hands._

_“Look, Abbie, I wasn’t trying to make this a thing. I have to remember that you keep things close to the vest and I have to respect that.” She leaned over and planted a kiss on her check. “I love you, and if this guy is sending you flowers this gorgeous, he can’t be all that bad.”_

_“Right,” Abbie breathed._

_Moments later, she moved to do what Sophie suggested, going into their shared bathroom to take a long, hot shower and do a quick co-wash of her hair. When she got out, she wrapped a huge yellow towel around her body before toweling her hair and applying product: some leave-in conditioner, coconut oil, and a curl defining cream so that her curls would pop._

_In her room, Abbie sat on her bed still in her towel, plopping down on a yellow and gray floral print comforter. Sophie had placed the flowers in a line on her desk, the card Abbie didn’t remember dropping onto the table tucked neatly between two stems. She picked up the card and lifted the flap, slowly pulling the card out. It was on pale lavender cardstock, the message also in his neat handwriting._

 

_I saw each of these flowers and thought of you. They are each reminiscent of a quality you possess,; they tell but an ounce of my affection for you._

_Red carnations are for how much I admire you, my pride in having you on my arm, the adoration that lives in my heart for you._

_Calla lillies pale in the midst of your beauty but I hope they might seem worthy of your magnificence._

_And birds of paradise are rather remarkable, like you; flowers to express the joy  and anticipation I harbor knowing you will be in my arms tonight._

_I’ll be seeing you._

_Yours,_

_I. C._

 

 _“Oh my,” Abbie said softly. She’d known the man was good with words, but well, this was something altogether different. She wouldn’t,_ couldn’t _, think about it more deeply so she stood to get dressed instead._

 

_Most days, Abbie walked the couple blocks to the Coffee Shop before making her way another few blocks to the campus. She drove more during the colder months, she and Sophie switching off days and one hanging around campus, studying, until the other was done. Sophie volunteered to drive, citing that one of her afternoon classes had been cancelled so they would be able to leave earlier._

_Abbie had decided on a black pencil skirt that hemmed just below her knees. This she paired with a slightly oversized cream sweater. Her shoes were black ankle booties, the heel high enough to give her legs length. She’d given her lips a swipe of blood red lipstick, in honor of the holiday._

_“You look good,” Sophie commented as Abbie slid into the car with their coffees. “I didn’t tell you that earlier.”_

_“Thanks. Wanted to dress up a little.”_

_Sophie looked like she wanted to say something else; instead, she put the car in gear and eased out of the parking lot._

_They were on the way to campus from the Coffee Shop when she got the first message._

Him: I’m beginning to worry.

_She saw the name she’d saved his number under in her phone, her mouth ticking up into a small smile as she read the message._

    **Why are you worried?**

Him: You haven’t mentioned the flowers at all. Did you receive them?

     **Yes, I did.**

     **What were you thinking??**

**Did you drop them off yourself? Someone could have seen you.**

Him: Abigail, it’s alright. I came by undetected. No harm, no foul, as you all say.

     _Abbie sighed heavily, hand pressed to her forehead._ He _was the adult here yet was such a fanciful person._

Him: Did you like them?

     **They’re beautiful, Crane. Thank you.**

Him: You’re most welcome.

_She hesitated just a second before responding._

     **I also read your card.**

Him: Oh?

     **Yes.**

Him: And?

     **Crane…**

_She didn’t know what it meant that he could read between those lines._

Him: I meant every word.

_When Abbie took stock of her surroundings again, she noticed that the car had stopped and they were parked in front of the Math and Sciences Building. Sophie was staring at her, contemplative._

_“You like this guy.” It wasn’t a question._

_Abbie hesitated. And then, “yeah, I do.”_

_Sophie nodded, took a sip of her French roast. “We’ve got a little time. Tell me about him.”_

_Abbie glanced down at her hands and back up at her friend who was waiting patiently.  She took a deep breath._

_“He’s...nice.” She fiddled with her phone, turning it over in her hand, stared at the photo of her and Jenny last summer at the beach that was her screensaver._

_“Nice?” Sophie was skeptical._

_“Yeah, but not in the way you’re thinking. He’s literally nice. He asks me about my day and actually listens. He holds doors open and he feeds me and he gets me ice cream when I’m PMSing. He even washed my hair once.”_

_“You let him wash your hair?” Sophie lifted an eyebrow._

_“Yeah, it…” She thought back to that night: soaking in Crane’s clawfoot tub, her hair piled on her head and smelling of coconuts and berries, a glass of wine on the floor beside her; she saw his long, elegant fingers massaging the conditioner into her scalp, in slow sure motions, the feeling settling deep in the pit of her belly. “It was a thing.”_

_“I see.” Sophie smiled knowingly. “What else?”_

_“He’s smart. Like really fucking smart. Almost to the point that I want to punch him in the mouth sometimes.”_

_“Is he cute?”_

_“Very. He wears suits and ties and you know I’m a sucker for a guy in a suit.” There was_ not _swoon in her voice._

_“And he makes you happy?” Sophie questioned, still a little cautious._

_Abbie shrugged, the move casual, but she answered honestly. “Yes. He does.”_

_“Well, then, I’m happy for you, Abs. Truly.”_

_“Thank you, Sophie. That means a lot.”_

_“Alright. Let’s go before we’re late for class.”_

_They unbuckled their seatbelts and got out, Abbie doing a quick lipstick check in the car window before rounding to the front of the car._

_“I’ll meet you at 3 outside of the History building, right?”_

_Sophie nodded. “Yep.”_

_They went their separate ways._

 

_Abbie had only two classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Biology and Composition II. She lost focus during Bio, the lesson on plant classification a perfect segue for the picture of flowers in her mind, the three vases of perfectly chosen blossoms, each selected with the sole purpose of expressing what the night would mean for him. Abbie didn’t remember a word Dr. Jacobs said._

_Normally, she was not one for daydreaming. She was smart, she knew, but for her, school required work: meticulous notes, hours of study, flashcards. So she committed herself to focusing in Comp II, to listening to Professor Washington drone on about the themes in “Everyday Use,” which did happen to be one of her favorite Alice Walker short stories._

_When class was over, she looked down at her notebook to see that she had drawn hearts in the margins of her notebook, of varying shapes and sizes and shades._

_“Oh, fucking…” she ripped the paper out and threw it into the trash, disgusted. “Get your shit together, Mills.”_

_She had lunch in the cafeteria by herself, a chicken caesar salad that she ate while she reread “Everyday Use,” actually marking notes that time. When she was done, she saw that it was just after 2 and she knew that Crane had office hours. She made her way to the History building._

_Crane’s door was closed when she cleared the staircase, indicating that he was meeting with a student so Abbie took a seat in the chair outside of his office to wait._

_She didn’t have to wait long. What seemed like only a minute later, the door opened and a student walked out. She was obviously older than Abbie, a tall, dark haired girl wearing jeans she HAD to have been poured into and black stiletto boots._

_“Thanks so much, Dr. Crane,” the girl said, smiling up at him._

_“Of course, Miss Bailey. I look forward to reading your essay.”_

_The girl smiled and tossed her long, wavy hair over her shoulder._

_“See you next week, Dr. Crane”._

_She ran a manicured hand along the length of Crane’s arm, ran a tongue over her pink painted mouth._

_“Until then.”_

_He nodded at the girl, a tiny little grin on his face, and she sauntered off._

_Abbie faced Crane as she stood. He ushered her in silently, closing the door behind them with a soft click. She walked over to his desk, fingers running along the slick wood. When she turned back to him, he was standing against the door, hands shoved into the pockets of his black slacks. His sweater was as red as her lipstick, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows to reveal the tanned forearms._

_“You just don’t know the effect you have on people, do you?”_

_He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”_

_“‘See you next week, Dr. Crane,’” she mimicked. “There’s a lot more of you that that girl wants to see.”_

_Crane lifted an eyebrow, lifted the corner of his mouth in a sort of half smile._

_“You’re adorable when you’re envious.”_

_She rolled her eyes. “I’m always adorable.”_

_“Yes.”_

_He pushed off of the door, starting towards her, eyes taking in the length of her. She felt that gaze deep, deep in the pit of her stomach, the heat practically_ singeing _her. She shivered in anticipation, the heat continuing to spread, settling at her core._

_When he got to her, she leaned against the desk, hands spread out behind her, feet solidly planted on the floor to steady her. He crowded her space, crowded her, pushing her back until she was partially seated on the desk._

_“You look beautiful today, Abigail.”_

_She bit at her lip. “You tell me that everyday.”_

_“It’s true everyday.” He brought one hand up to cup her face, thumbing her bottom lip. “But today…”_

_He said that everyday too. Abbie was sure she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t_ focus _. Not on anything but him, at the way his eyes roamed her face, cataloging her features; at the way his long tipped fingers wandered along her face, always returning to tap lovingly on her mouth._

_“Thank you.” When his gaze turned questioning, she clarified, “For the flowers. And the card.”_

_“It was truly my pleasure.”_

_“You gotta stop spoiling me, Crane,” she admonished. Her voice was low, soft. She reached up to touch him, wrapping one hand around his neck. He pushed into her again, flexing his hips, body hard against hers._

_“You deserve to be spoiled, Abbie.”_

_She must have literally melted, how easily her body sunk into him. He moved both of his hands to her hips, bringing them impossibly closer._

_“You’ve_ got _to know the effect you have on people,” she repeated._

_“That doesn’t matter to me,” he told her. “I only care about you.”_

_“Crane…”_

_He leaned down and kissed her._

_Abbie always felt_ cherished _when Crane kissed her, so much so that it was frightening. Often, her first instinct was to_ run, _to steer clear of him, to stay as far away as she could to save herself._

 _But he was so warm and, cocooned in his embrace, she felt_ wanted. _And when he slipped his tongue between her lips, she felt hot.  His knee was wedged between her thighs, as much as her skirt would allow, and she felt him against her hip, hard and long and ready for her. Then he cradled her, wrapping his arms around her waist, holding her close. It was all so staggering, the steady feel of him surrounding her body, the sweet taste of his tongue, the unsteady beat of her heart. Even still, Abbie felt so_ safe _with him, like if she fell, he would catch her._

_“Crane,” she mumbled, pulling away. “I just came to say thank you.”_

_“False.”_

_She leaned back and he followed her, kissing her cheek when she twisted away from him._

_“You could have sent me a message,” he said. “You could have waited until tonight. Instead, you came here.”_

_“I’m waiting for Sophie.”_

_“Of course,” he conceded, nuzzling her neck, his beard tickling her cheek. “I suppose you just settled for me.”_

_Abbie’s eyes closed and, like the hussey she was, she dropped her head back, exposing her neck to him. He placed a kiss at her ear, nipped her there, bit at the sensitive skin just below. Abbie moaned, a delicate sound from the back of her throat. His fingers flexed on her hips. He twirled his tongue in a circle, another one, before bringing a piece of her skin between his lips to suckle._

_That’s when she pushed him back again._

_“No.”_

_His eyes were heavy lidded, almost navy now. “What?” he mumbled dumbly._

_“You always mark me,” she explained. “I’m going through makeup faster than I like to think about covering these up.”_

_He was unrepentant. “Because you’re mine.”_

_She blinked up at him. He’d been doing that a lot recently, convictions like that._

_He kissed her and she allowed him one more, one more moment, one more minute of indiscretion._

_“I gotta go, baby. I’ll see you later.”_

_He frowned but gave her another peck before stepping back. “7 o’clock sharp. The cabin will be unlocked for you.”_

_“Anything I should bring?”_

_Crane shook his head and reached out to bring her back to him._

_“You,” he confirmed. “Your mouth.” He reached back and cupped her ass. “This. Knickers optional.”_

_Abbie smiled. “You saying that would be so sexy if you didn’t sound like a British diplomat.”_

_He didn’t bother to act offended. “Yes. Well, you love it.”_

_She shrugged. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”_

_Abbie grabbed a kleenex from the box on Crane’s desk and dabbed at the lipstick on his face. He was still under her ministrations._

_“You’re such a mess,” she muttered fondly._

_“Entirely your fault.”_

_She rolled her eyes._

_“How’s my lipstick?” she asked._

_He nodded. “You look good. No evidence of your afternoon tryst.”_

_She snorted. “You’re such a fucking dork.”_

_He beamed at her, as if she had just paid him the biggest compliment, and Abbie’s heart lurched, the  door holding guard opening_ just _a creak._

_She walked out of the office, leaving his door open as she did. She threw up a hand casually._

_“See ya, Professor Crane.”_

_He inclined his head and smirked, blue eyes blazing. “Miss Mills.”_

 

_At 6:30, Abbie walked out of her bedroom, shaved and plucked to within an inch of her life. She had spent the better part of her afternoon preparing for the night, and the result was Abbie waxed and lotioned and smelling like her favorite body wash, like honey and lavender. Her hair was a wild mane that settled in soft curls down her back. The dress she’d chosen was simple: a black A-line chiffon that hemmed at her thighs, the top fitted to her torso, the skirt a little fuller, a deep V-neck showing maximum cleavage._

_The clack of Abbie’s tall black pumps on their hardwood floor was interrupted by a long, low whistle from the back. She twirled around, the see-through layer of the skirt moving with her. Sophie stood half out of her bedroom door, her hunter green silk robe wrapped tightly around her body. She was going out too, probably with Vic Moloch, one of her more consistent dates. Her hair was blow dried and brushed until it was a luscious sheet of shiny dark hair and her face was fully made up._

_“Abs, you look amazing.”_

_Abbie looked down at herself, rubbing her hand nervously down the front of her dress. “Yeah?”_

_Sophie nodded and made her way closer. She reached up and fiddled with Abbie’s hair, tucking a few stray strands back._

_“Crane’s gonna swallow his tongue when he sees you.”_

_“You think? I paid a pretty penny…”_

_Sophie pulled her hand back as Abbie’s words trailed off and her eyes widened. Her hand flew to her mouth and she blinked over at her friend._

_“How’d you…?”_

_“Y’all are pretty good,” she said. “You’re never alone together during times that are inappropriate or sketchy. Even though most of the other girls in our class still fawn over him despite the fact that this is our second semester with him, you give him hell. So everyone probably thinks you hate him.” Sophie gave her a smile. “But the way he stares at you, Abbie. I think sometimes_ I _blush when I see him look at you in class.”_

_“Soph…”_

_“And at first I thought he was just another creepy professor. Just because he’s British doesn’t mean he gets a pass on being creepy. But then I saw you walking out of his office today. Your face, Abs. You looked, I don’t know,” she shook her head, trying to come up with a word, “_ enamored, _and then it clicked.”_

_Abbie bit at her lip. “I did want to tell you. I just…”_

_Sophie grabbed her hand. “It’s alright. I understand.” She nodded towards the door. “Go. That man of yours is waiting.We’ll make dinner Sunday and you can tell me everything.”_

_“Alright. See you tomorrow.”_

_Abbie let herself be kissed on the cheek by Sophie and then she put on her tan peacoat, buttoned herself up, and headed out._

 

_Crane lived in a converted cabin some twenty minutes outside of town. The first time she had gone over, after a late night spent in his office, Abbie had had a pretty difficult time reconciling polished Dr. Crane, with his accent and silk ties, living in the middle of nowhere. But, she had learned that there was a little more rough around his edges than she had initially thought and he was a man who did enjoy his solitude._

_When she arrived, she parked her Jeep beside a dusty red F150 pickup (another contradiction that Abbie found both strange and amusing). The sun had just set, and the sky was a muted cobalt blue, not quite dark enough to be considered night yet._

_His cabin was inviting, soft light barely spilling from the windows. The place was nothing special on the outside. It was an ordinary looking log cabin, longer than it was wide, with a porch that wrapped around the entire front. Two tall pots of amethysts flanked the front door, most likely from the garden that Crane had in the backyard. A charming little porch swing hung from the raft on the left side of the porch; a wicker table surrounded by two matching chairs sat on the other side. It was nestled in between tall pine trees, a delightful little place that, had it not been sitting in the middle of the fucking woods, would have been an actual dream._

_She closed and locked her car, fingering the gift she had for him in the pocket of her jacket, before carefully making her way across the gravel and up the steps. As promised, his front door was unlocked. She pushed it open and stepped inside, pulling her jacket from her arms and hanging it up on one of the hooks to the right of the door. A short hallway led to his front room which featured an open concept floor plan and when she cleared the archway, she paused. He’d done...the most._

_Flower petals made a path from the archway off to the right towards the fireplace, where Crane had created a eating sanctuary. It was beautiful: a table covered in a black linen tablecloth, white rose petals scattered over the table. Plates were placed across from one another, wine glasses in front of them, a bottle of wine chilling in a bucket on the side of the table. Two long, red candles were placed perfectly in the middle, not yet lit. Laminated paper hearts were hung from streamers along the wall._

_Crane had heard her come into the house so he popped his head up from the stove, searching for her over the island, a kitchen towel thrown carelessly over his shoulder. When he caught her eye, he smiled, an easy curve of his lips, blue eyes brightening._

_“Abigail,” he spoke._

_Abbie didn’t think she would ever get over the way Crane said her name, admiring, a whisper of awe._

_He rounded the kitchen island. He was dressed fairly casually, in a pair of black pants and a tucked in black polo, his black socked feet padding over to her. Abbie would admit that the sight of him in all black was a nice little shock to her libido._

_“Crane,” she said softly, looking around. “This is beautiful. You didn’t have to do all this.”_

_“Of course I did,” he said, as if it was obvious._

_He grabbed her hand, bringing her closer. She teetered on her heels until there was no distance between them, her other hand settling on his shoulder._

_“God, you really are a dork.” She leaned up to press a kiss to his mouth._

_“If it allows me constant access to your mouth, I’ll gladly be whatever you deem.”_

_She rolled her eyes playfully. “See what I mean.”_

_“Come. I’m not quite finished with dinner. You can keep me company while I complete the sauce.”_

_“Okay.”_

_Still holding her hand, he led her to the kitchen where there was a pot of noodles resting and a cast iron skillet bubbling with a sauce. She took a seat at the island and watched as Crane grabbed a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and poured her a small glass, placing the glass in front of her. She took a sip, swallowing with her eyes closed, savoring the taste of the fruity blend, light and only faintly sweet._

_“Yum,” she moaned. “You always have the good wine.”_

_He shot her a grin before picking up the wooden spoon and stirring the sauce, dropping in some chopped herbs as he did._

_They made small talk, exchanging pleasantries, small snippets of their days. It wasn’t until Crane turned off burners and grabbed bowls from the cupboard that Abbie blurted,_

_“Sophie knows about us.”_

_Crane paused, hands clutching the bowls. “She what? How? I…” He placed the bowls down on the counter. “You told her?”_

_“Nope. She figured it out.” Abbie settled her chin in her hand and added as an afterthought. “She’s gonna make a great detective.”_

_“How did she manage to…?”_

_“Apparently, you’re not very subtle.”_

_Abbie took a swallow of her wine, draining the glass. Then, she hopped down from the island chair and walked around to the kitchen. Crane followed her movements, watching her step toward him on the tall heels that put her closer to his height. He seemed distracted, the way his eyes trailed the length of her, at her pretty little shoes, up her legs (there he loitered a bit), into the swell of her chest, before finally settling on her face._

_“She says it’s in the way you look at me.”_

_“And how is it that I look at you?”_

_His voice was low, throaty. He’d said it in a whisper, the words like music in his accent, a song to her ears. They were close, so close that Abbie could smell the hint of sandalwood that lived on his skin._

_He waited patiently for the answer, hands clenched by his sides as if he were trying not to touch her. She closed the distance._

_She pressed into him, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. She turned them so that his hips were_ _pressed_ _more fully against the counter, and she placed her hands on the counter next to him, on either side of him. He looked down at her and asked again._

_“How do I look at you, Abigail?”_

_She licked her lips, pulled the bottom into her mouth to suck. Then she whispered so low she feared he might not hear her.   “Like I’m the most beautiful girl in the world.”_

_He pressed his lips to hers._

_The first time Crane had kissed Abbie, it had been an awkward fumble of lips when overcome with lust as they’d sat into his office late one Friday night. The second time, mere seconds after the first, Abbie had gotten a rush of lust so hard that she had fallen back onto his desk, his wooden name placard breaking her fall. She had knocked it away and laid out fully on her back, drowning in the feel of Ichabod’s tongue licking against the roof of her mouth, so gone that she had lost all sight of the world around her._

_That is how Abbie felt now, as if they were surrounded by a yellow blaze of fire and absolutely nothing could touch them. He moved his mouth with intent. First, he hovered over her, breath fanning lightly over lips. Then he gave her a peck. Two. Then another that sucked her lip into his mouth, that closed her eyes and had her leaning into it, her grip on the counter tightening. She allowed him the lead, letting him give her tongue, letting him choose the pattern: a hard press of his mouth, a soft flick his tongue, an insistent need in every movement._

_They kissed forever, Abbie sinking far too easily in the intimacy of it all. There was purpose there; they would eventually fall onto his bed and he would push hard and solid into her and she would mask the feeling that she was_ flying _by biting into his neck and stifling her moans. For now, they kissed, tiny, playful nips on her lips that turned into deliberate bites he soothed with the tip of his tongue._

_Then, Abbie felt the pads of his fingers on her thighs, and everything she had been keeping at bay (the warmth in the pit of her stomach, the coil of heat she felt between her thighs) went flooding to her core. His fingers pressed into her thigh muscles, mimicking the earlier touch of his lips to hers. They idled there for a while, tracing small circles on her skin, reacquainting himself with her skin, touching her like he hadn’t in days. The little taste emboldened him and Crane moved up, up, until he’d bunched her dress around her waist and the whole of his hands gripped her ass. He was touching the edges of the panties she wore, the material light and sheer._

_“Abigail.” Crane’s voice was strained with power, with want, need. “What do you have on under this dress?”_

_The charge of air entering her lungs was enough of a shock to stand her straighter and she inhaled deeply, her chest heaving from the effort. His eyes strayed there._

_She reached behind her, to the zipper that started at the middle of her back, and she pulled it down. She pushed the shoulders of the dress over her arms, letting it drop to pool at her feet. She stood before him in red lace, her breasts full in the cups, chocolate areolas clearly visible through the sheer material. The panties were a cheeky pair with pretty floral detailing that followed an indiscernible pattern, snaking along her hips, circling at the top of her butt, leading towards her sex._

_“My God,” Crane mumbled, eyes darting up, sliding down, unsure of where to look. “You wore this for me?”_

_He waited until she nodded before his hand covered his eyes for a second, and then ran over his face until his fingers tangled in his beard. He stilled, as if contemplating his next move. And Abbie stared back at him too, watching as his fingers stroked his beard gingerly._

_Abbie used to fantasize about his fingers, long before she’d finally decided to give in and spread for him. Crane taught with his whole body: walking from one end of the room to the other, arms flailing, hands flying as his strange predilection for America’s founding fathers came rushing forth in heavily accented soliloquies. Abbie would tune out the specifics, focusing instead on the steady hum of his smooth baritone, on the way his hands flew through the air. He liked to touch things, picking up books, cradling them lovingly in the palms of his huge hands, licking at the tip of his index finger before turning a page. Abbie would sit beside Sophie, her chin settled in one hand, pencil tapping arrhythmically on her notepad. She would wonder about those fingers, what they would feel like traipsing the expanse of her smooth skin. If they’d be soft or course, calloused from some activity Abbie couldn’t fathom. Would he be gentle? Would he stroke her with barely there caresses, his fingers seeking knowledge of the shape of her body? Would he be rough? Would he part her thighs with impatience, slipping his long fingers between her folds indelicately?_

_Abbie had been pleased to discover that he was a combination, an amalgamation of kinks that starred his fingers and changed with the seasons, the circumstances, how quickly he needed to be sheathed inside of her._

_In that moment, he was adoring. It had been days, two days since she had lain beside him and he seemed to need to praise whatever deity had brought them there, to praise_ her _for allowing him access to this, to him and her and their bodies stripped bare._

_He dropped to his knees, bringing his face directly into her crotch. He wrapped his hands around the globes of her ass--she smiled briefly; god, how he was practically obsessed with her butt--and just held on, bringing her closer. He inhaled, a deep intake of air, of the scent of her, and when he exhaled, she shivered, the feel of his breath warm on her, even through the scant material of her panties._

_“Crane…”_

_“Treasure,” he whispered, voice husky. “You smell divine.” He looked up at her, pleading.  “I just want to… I need to…”_

_Abbie met his eyes, astonished by the need that lived there, by the blatant desire she saw brimming in the navy orbs. It made no sense, how gone over her he seemed to be. She was 19 years old; he was a 27 year old man. Yet, here he was, on the floor on his knees in front of her, stuttering because he was so overcome with wanting_ her.

 _“I’ve been thinking about you all day, Abbie,” he said. It would have sounded matter of fact if not for the strain she felt behind the words. His hands still on her, he maneuvered them, shifting on his knees, until her back gently hit the counter. She startled, glancing down and trying to see herself the way he must: high heels and red lace, the deep curve of her waist, the round arc of her ass, her brown eyes round, full lips parted in bated_ _anticipation_ _. She fell back a bit, breaking it by grabbing onto the counter._

_He placed a kiss at the front of her, chaste, but Abbie’s thighs parted, just a centimeter._

_“All day,” he whispered. “I’ve been thinking about what’d happen when I got you here, how delectable you’d taste.”_

_He cupped her pussy in the palm of his hand._

_“Ohhhh.”_

_“About how warm you’d be.” He traced her through her panties, two fingers firm on her.  “About how wet.”_

_It was nothing for him to move the scant piece of material to the side and slide his fingers along her slit. She_ hissed _at the feeling, sucking her breath in, gripping the counter tighter._

_“See,” he hummed, mouth but moments away from her. “I knew you’d be so fucking wet for me.”_

_Abbie loved when he swore, loved how strange the words sounded on his tongue. But when he pushed into her, all the way to the knuckle, that was not her focus. It was the stroke of his fingers, playing in her slick._

_The noises he was pulling from her were_ obscene, _the wet sound of him moving in and out of her, the moans he elicited: a low-voiced “shit,” a high pitched mewl, long stuttered humming as she bit at her lips._

 _When he put his mouth on her, sucking her on her clit without preamble, Abbie cried out, “fuuuuck!”_ _  
_ _Her knees locked and she put pressure on her tiptoes, feet lifting from her shoes. The pleasure was instantaneous. He kissed her, like a kiss on her face, tongue snaking against her folds, licking into her slit; lips covering her, sucking on her, hard. She couldn’t move, couldn’t stay still. She wanted to fall, to smother him with her cunt. She wanted to stay right there and let him eat her forever._

 _It was an assault on her body, the sensation of coming. She_ shook _, her whole body quivering as she responded to his attentions. It builded, started at the very tip of her toes, literally curling them in her shoes. It moved up, through her calves, the muscles straining, tightening so much that is was almost painful. But then it climbed, higher, higher, through her thighs, Crane’s head clasped firmly between them. And then he crooked his finger_ right _as he closed his lips around her clit._

_And she crested._

_She screamed._

_She might have blacked out._

 

_After, they fell to the floor: Abbie still in red lace, shoes strewn across the floor; and Crane half on top of her, his head on her belly, beard still a little wet from her. They stay that way a while, breathing heavily, Abbie lost in contentment._

_There was no other way to describe it, the pleasure he made her body feel, how the compliments he paid her so freely were like a balm to the bruises scattered across her heart. She had never felt like this before, the adjectives running across her brain like words on a marquee: strong and vulnerable and naked and exposed and powerful and desirable. It was overwhelming. And exciting. And freeing._

_“I’m hungry,” she mumbled, after a moment._

_“Well, let’s eat.”_

_Abandoning Crane’s living room set up, Abbie grabbed the bottle of wine and went into his bedroom, slipping into one of his t-shirts, her dress forgotten on the kitchen floor. Crane followed behind her, bowls piled high with angel hair pasta topped with a luscious white wine sauce, bits of chicken, peppers, and mushrooms setting the dish off. They ate messily, hungrily slurping up pasta twirled on forks and slugging wine out of the bottle._

_And they talked. About life in Scotland, about boarding schools in England and pranks. Never about what brought him to America. About Jenny and Sophie and how lucky she was to have them. Never about her father, her mother, foster parents who’d left her._

_When one bottle of wine was finished, Crane went to grab another one and shucked his clothes before climbing back into bed with her. They laughed; Abbie didn’t think she had ever laughed so much._

_It was cute and sweet._

_Until they stopped laughing, the touches that had transpired between them becoming a little less flirtatious, a little more sensual. Crane kissed her mouth, sharing the sweet taste of the wine, the heady taste of him.  When she moaned into his mouth, climbing over to settle in his lap, he pulled back briefly to search her face. His fingers touched lightly at her throat, holding her face still, his eyes so blue she saw oceans in their depths, seas of lust, of pure carnality._

_“Abigail?” His voice sounded more raspy than usual, lust making the timbre deeper._

_“I want to feel you.” Her own voice was a whisper. “I want to feel you deep in me, filling me, almost in my womb, Crane.”_

_“Fuck,” Crane blinked._

_And then they were rearranging themselves, their movements slow, changing so that Crane could peel away her panties and her bra, so that he could slip inside of her. When she slid all the way down, down to the hilt, she felt his dick pulse against her walls and her body clenched around him, holding him in her heat. He was so hard inside of her,_ full _inside of her, and Abbie was amazed she didn’t come again right there._

_She stared at him for a long moment, the both of them immobile, content with the exquisite feel of his sex stretching against her walls. His breathing was uneven and there was the erratic rise and fall of his chest pressed firmly against her breasts._

_Then they started to dance. They were synchronized: his hips thrusting up when she ground down, her body circling left when his went right. This was unhurried, measured. This was about them in the moment, just them, naked and bare before one another._

_And they were kissing again. Somehow, this kiss was deeper, and Abbie thought he might be asking something of her. The kiss was slow, but hard, demanding. His mouth demanded she succumb to him, demanded she give in to him, demanded that he give her all of him. And Abbie knew right then that she had fallen deep for Ichabod Crane._

_She milked him, her sex, and he responded with a firmer grip on her neck. Abbie shifted on top of him, her clit inadvertently rubbing against his pelvis, and then, she was coming. It was unexpected, the climax a surprise, and she moaned into his mouth, closing her eyes and letting go._

_Crane continued rocking into her,_ God he was still so hard _, and he watched her. He was muttering, “You’re so pretty, so pretty, fuck, you’re so bloody gorgeous, you feel like heaven,” and he kept rocking, the bed shaking, the headboard hitting the wall. She would come again, if he kept it up, her body already leaking, soaking his thighs._

_“Damn...Crane...you feel...” She clutched his hair harder in her hands, the silky brown tresses lightly damp with perspiration._

_“Ab..” the name trailed off and he locked eyes, still rocking into her, never breaking contact, his fingers firm on her neck, solid on her hip._

_“Abbie,” he held her gaze, eyes navy and black, irises lost. She couldn’t look away, although there was too much there, an expression, a word, a phrase he was trying to convey. He swiveled his hips, holding on to hers, and she leaned forward, steadying herself with her hands on his chest. They were close, so near her breathed fanned over his mouth and she could see every detail on his face. Sweat gathered at his temples and she pressed a kiss there._

_When she pulled back, there was an intensity there that had not been before._

_“I love you.”_

_She blinked, the words washing over her, rushing in her ears. She stilled, hips slowing until she was steady on top of him. He unwrapped his hand from her neck and held her chin in between his thumb and forefinger. She wanted to shield, so she closed her eyes, blocking out the endearing expression on his face._

_“Don’t hide from me, Abigail.”_

_She counted--one, two, three-- and then her eyes fluttered open. He was all still there: his overheated skin, searching blue eyes, swollen sex still stretching her._

_“Crane, I don’t…”_

_He shook his head, lips curving in a faint smile. “Just let me love you, darling.”_

_She didn’t know if she_ could, _if she was  even capable._

_But then he flipped her on her back and sweet Lord, he was so hard, so thick; he was so deeeeeeep. And she would do whatever, let him try whatever, as long as he touched her like this, and talked to her at 3 in the morning when she couldn’t sleep, and listened when she complained about other classes, and looked at her like she was a literal star. She would let him have her if he kept fucking her._

_“Ichaboood…”_

_He hit something_ good _, so good._

_“Don’t stop,” she cried. “God, please, don’t ever stop.”_

_He reached down and spread her thighs, sinking deeper--how could she feel him in her stomach?--and she was coming again, harder than before, her vision whitening. She rode her orgasm out, bucking against him as he continued to snap into her, faster now, faster,_ harder. _Then was climaxing too, pulsing hard and hot inside her._

_When they’d both come down, he planted a kiss to her lips and got up to grab a towel. He cleaned them both up, gently, quietly, his confession still heavy in the air. He slid back into bed beside her, wrapping Abbie up in her arms. She allowed it._

_They fell asleep that way, Abbie’s head tucked under his chin, the rest of them tangled together so that, if not for the stark contrast in their complexions, an onlooker might have trouble telling one from the other. Abbie closed her eyes and, in the darkness of the night, she let herself dwell in the space, in his words. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she was loved._

 

August 2012

_The first time he saw her, he had been in line at the Coffee Shop._

_The day was warm--hot, really, the early August sun already blazing--and Ichabod was anxious, nervous with the energy of the start of the new term. In his experience, students carried with them one of two emotions each semester’s start: the slight bewilderment of the first year students; and over-excitement from those returning, giddy with reconciliation._

_Ichabod was sitting in both of those currently; it was a palpable phenomenon, his entire body wired. So, as he stood in line waiting impatiently to order his coffee, he was already edgy. Then, he saw her and the world tilted on its axis._

_Crane believed himself to be a man of contradictions. While he was a man of logic, thinking things through and attempting to recognize patterns behind a person’s decisions, he was also prone to fantastic flights of fancy. He was learned; his credentials hailed from several of the more prestigious universities in the world. Still, he was moved by his emotions; capable of living in love, in lust, in anger for far longer than was always warranted._

_That knowledge firmly planted in his psyche, Ichabod attempted to convince himself that the_ bolt _of_ something _that coursed through his frame was but a baseless reaction to her person. She was...positively bewitching: long, dark, curly hair that swept past her shoulders, luminous brown skin that_ glowed _, a body conjured from wet dreams. It was working too, until she turned around entirely and he caught the full impact of her. Her eyes were absently scanning the room and then, they locked with his._

_Planets ceased spinning. The sun and moon fought for dominance in the sky. Ichabod couldn’t tell is he were hot or cold. He was not even sure if he was breathing. All he knew was that she was a star, brilliant, burning, and he felt something akin to a sense of unworthiness. He didn’t know this woman, had not the slightest clue about her, yet he thought that she might have been created to be worshipped._

_The first time Ichabod fell in love, he had been a boy of 14. Noelle had been gorgeous, thin with deep red hair, and he had met her at a party he and a few other lads had snuck off to. He remembered sweaty palms and an inability to swallow, this every time he knew he might be in her presence again._

_He met Jocelyn at 17, a tall, buxom brunette a few years his senior who spoke in long, rambling sentences about global warming and animal extinctions. She was passionate and flighty and the first woman to drop to her knees for him. She had made him feel big and significant, as if he were a part of the solution to the world’s dilemmas, and it had manifested in a clenched belly every time she disrobed and a fluttering in his heart whenever she was near._

_There was a spattering of other women: Gloria, a library science student so spectacular Ichabod was convinced he became a Pavlovian canine whenever he walked into a library; Hannah, hazel-eyed and brown-skinned, a gymnast who studied Physics in her spare time. She had been the only one whose mind had seemed to operate like his and that allowed for a sense of contentment unlike he had experienced before._

_And then there had been Betsy, beautiful and distant, strong and manipulative. It had taken a while to come to terms with it, their relationship, the game of emotional chess she’d played with him. She had been affectionate when it had suited her, made a mockery of him when it didn’t, and all the while, Ichabod had waited for the carrot she’d dangled when she saw fit to._

_It had not always been that way. Before he’d crossed an ocean to be clear of her, it had been like this: sweaty palms and blocked airways and tightened trousers and a hammering heart._

_It would be entirely plausible for Ichabod to take this awareness and bolt. However, he had spent years, all those he has been in the States, endeavoring to remind himself that all women were not Betsy. Especially not this woman, who seemed to harbor an intense need for love hidden beneath a veneer of feigned aloofness._

_Ichabod did not believe in love at first sight. That was ludicrous, a childish notion that sold poetry. But he couldn’t explain, couldn't even fathom, why (as he stared at the woman and she stared back at him, amber eyes wide), he was feeling this way. It was reminiscent of his reactions to Betsy, but worse, because he could discern no rhyme nor reason for the onslaught. She was a stranger, albeit a gorgeous one. Still, it was absurd, unreasonable, irrational. He stared back at her._

_The woman appeared detached at first, the once over of him nearly clinical. But then it, it_ changed, _startling him,_ _becoming a commixture of feelings, of thoughts, of senses that altered with every blink of her eyes. They passed by in flutters: attraction, the interest radiating off her in waves, gaze intense, pointed; confusion, a trait Ichabod contributed to the strange reaction to one another, although he could simply be projecting. There was something else too, something more grounded, harder to decipher. Buried. There was pain there, a hint of insecurity that she shuttered so quickly he could very well just have imagined it._

_She gave him a small smile, blessedly full lips curving up ever so slightly and then she was gone, clutching her coffee in her hands. He was decidedly bereft when the space was clear of her, unsure of what it meant that his hands still tingled, that his heart had not started beating again._

_He eventually ordered his coffee and proceeded to campus, leaving his vehicle in the parking lot after retrieving his briefcase, having decided to walk. He arrived on campus with some time until his first class. He made his way into the History building and located the classroom he would be using for his first lesson._

_There was one lone pupil already seated in the seminar room._

_“God’s wounds,” he muttered lowly._

_It was then that Ichabod decided he must have tortured puppies in his other lifespan because it was_ her, _just as lovely as she had been twenty minutes ago,  just as enigmatic, but now roughly ten years younger and entirely forbidden._

_She had looked up when she’d heard him walk into the room and her bright eyes were now rounded with astonishment._

_“You,” she mumbled, voice simultaneously melodic and direct._

_“Me,” he mumbled dumbly, and was he sure he was the instructor?  He cleared his throat, a hand reaching up to tangle in his heard. “Uh, that is to say, Dr. Ichabod Crane, though you might have presumed.”_

_“Yeah,” she smiled, obscenely full lips curving up. She tapped a pen on the notebook in front of her. “I  hadn’t pegged you as a professor at the Coffee Shop but I definitely see it now.”_

_“Oh?”_

_She shrugged. “The tie should have given it away.”_

_He peaked down at the red silk tie he wore, hand stitched American flags covering it._

_“There’s a connection, then, between ties and a person’s profession?”_

_“Oh, of course. What a person wears tells a lot of their story, career included.”_

_He wondered what her clothes said about her, the simple green sundress that, though it draped lovingly over the curves of her body--_ stop, Ichabod; that’s inappropriate-- _it was unassuming and drew so special attention to any one part of her._

_He must have stared too long, his expression wondering, because she ducked her head, cheeks flushing._

_“Sorry. I just decided to declare Criminal Justice as my major so I’m trying to get into that mode of thinking.”_

_“I’d say you were well on your way.”_

_He watched as she laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle before thanking him. The sound was hypnotizing and he found himself at an impasse. Or rather, he wanted to be at one. He wanted the option of pursuing her. He desired just the opportunity to explore her, to understand her mind, to examine that glimpse of agony he had seen in the captivatingly amber depths of her eyes so that he might replace it with hope, with joy, with love. And, if he were honest with himself, he desired_ her _too, her body. He could not be certain that, if given the chance to spread her thighs and coat his beard with her essence, he would deny himself._

_That gave Ichabod pause. It was rather preposterous to think that she would want him, given his age and his position in relation to hers. All of that aside, in his three years of teaching, he had never sunk so low as to initiate relations with a student and this would not be the year he began. No matter how bewitching he found her._

_Students began to file into the room, alone and in groups,  and at 9 on the dot, he closed the door to start class._

_“Good morrow,” he spoke to them cheerfully. He did love to play up the British role._

_The class passed in an ordinary “first day of school” fashion and, much to Ichabod’s dismay, he left in much the same state as he had entered._

_Except for one thing._

_Now he knew her name._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back y'all!  
> So obviously I did not stick to the once a week schedule I had in my mind. Professional development started back at work and with lesson planning and preparing for kiddos to come back to school, I've been swamped.  
> But no worries! I'm never abandoning this. I'm SO invested in this story and I've got the next few chapters already thought out so I'm hoping to get them to you every two weeks instead.  
> As usual, reviews and comments are MUCH appreciated and I really hope y'all like this chapter.  
> **A lovely soul also commented about some of the professional and legal and possible moral implications of this story. You can read the full comment below but as a teacher, I feel I must let you know that I do not condone relationships that are between children and adults, that are unequal, are preying, or are non consensual. That being said, I do hope we can think of these two characters as consenting adults (yes, she is a lot younger, but there are shifting power dynamics that don’t put him solely at the lead) who’ve had shitty pasts they gotta work through.  
> However, it is tagged as a student-teacher relationship and that maintains as a part of the story. Furthermore, let’s acknowledge that this is fiction and not expected to be thought of as real life.  
> Happy Reading.  
> \--Elle


	5. V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another chance encounter, Abbie and Jenny have a bit of a heart to heart, and we would all be so lucky to have a Sophie Foster in our lives.

V.

“Truth, like love, is never absolute.” -E. Lynn Harris

_September 2016_

Abbie only let herself think of him late at night, when the moon crested the sky, large and imposing. There was something safe about letting her mind wander then, a sort of protection that the darkness provided, a promise that what happened under the moon would disappear when it too vanished.

Her thoughts of him varied. Sometimes they were sweet, memories of them lying on the rug in front of his fireplace on stolen Tuesday nights, their shared insomnia allowing for conversations that ended when the sun rose. She would think about his smooth baritone, how the later it got, the deeper his voice became until his words were not much more than a rumble she felt in her chest.

Sometimes her thoughts were unpleasant. She would remember arguments, shouting matches in the confines of his cabin because they couldn’t go anywhere else, the realization of what they were really doing heavy in the air. They had almost ended it once, before, when Crane had angrily thrown her age in her face and Abbie had outwardly questioned the relationship’s worth, when the only person she could gush to had also warned her of its impending doom. That night had culminated in tears soaking her bed pillows and a 4 a.m call from Crane that had reminded her that, too old or not, no one had ever listened to her the way he did, made her feel as smart as he did, made her want to become a stronger woman.

Sometimes, though, her thoughts were traitorous. Like tonight. It had been weeks since she had seen him at Candy Land, and it was still so clear to her, as if it was replaying again and again, on a loop in her head. She had been pretty tipsy that night--cognizant of her surroundings and of herself but in a way that the edges of everything was fuzzy-- with tequila coursing quickly through her blood. Sophie had fed her a shot and then another one, this before even leaving their apartment, in hopes that Abbie would finally let loose, have some fun. She had done just that.

She had danced in the crowd, losing herself in the intricate beat of the music. It had been ages since she had felt so unencumbered, school and work taking up most of her time. So, she had allowed herself that little bit of abandonment, that little bit of freedom. She had discovered that when she did, when she let her guard down just a little, she felt good. She had taken that feeling with her on a restroom break, slipping between sweating bodies in her flirty silver dress, the material just covering her ass, the matching shoes making her legs look improbably long.

After, she had gone to check her reflection in a mirror. There was a sitting room just outside the restrooms that featured several overstuffed couches and a huge mirror. Abbie could see all of herself and she looked, for the moment, happy: her brown skin flushed red from the heat, her dark eyes glassy, the lipstick painted on her mouth still rich. She absently thanked Sophie for letting her borrow her M.A.C.

It was then that she felt the air change, become more charged, ions running into overdrive. He was there; she knew he was. She also knew that it was the high levels of alcohol settled in her body that caused her to not bolt from the room. Or, she thought, it might have been the look in his eyes when she caught them in the mirror, those azure orbs aflame. Either way, she hadn’t immediately run away from him, her entire body shivering at his nearly stuttered compliment, pleased that he couldn’t seem to decide which part of her to look at the longest.

It had taken every single ounce of self control to walk away from him, only hesitating slightly when he’d offered to buy her a drink. She hadn’t needed another drink. That same discipline was not present when he presented himself before her only minutes later, hand outstretched in an offer of a dance. She used to love dancing with Crane, used to love the upper hand she had in that arena, how completely he gave over his power to follow her lead. She controlled the tempo, she controlled the dance, and he was content to touch wherever his hands landed, long, elegant fingers spreading wide on her small body. She used to love that too.

Abbie couldn’t say what had made her kiss him. In fact, since then, she had been trying to figure out her reasoning, something other than she had gotten lost in the depths of his eyes and that his mouth had seemed to be beckoning her. She hadn’t been able to give herself a response, though, and (as she had been doing for every event of the night) chalked it up to too much alcohol and not enough sex in her present life.

Then, there had been those messages. After Abbie had been pulled away by Sophie, they’d rounded the corner as Sophie had called for an Uber to pick them up. And while they’d waited, while Abbie had stood shivering in her dress (though not so much from the cold), the messages had come in, one after the other: _My leaving was never about my not loving you; I’m sorry, Treasure._ Abbie hadn’t given herself real time to process those. She’d read them and an emotion she still couldn’t put a name to had settled thickly in her chest. He’d wanted to keep her safe? What even did that mean?

Instead, she had deleted those messages and locked that feeling up tight, like she had been managing to do with every other emotion before he came back. At least that was something.

She hadn’t seen him around campus since, careful to take her lunch to go and to steer clear of the Thomas Paine building. There were a couple of brief moments when she thought maybe she had felt his presence at The Coffee Shop, around EU, but she had not looked around to see if he had really been there.

And so the last thing she remembered was the way he had kissed her, like he had missed her, like his decision to leave had been one he’d regretted since the day he had gotten on a plane. That is what it had felt like the minute she’d planted her lips on his, tasting his mouth and scotch and anguish and love.

That’s what she thought of now, that kiss. It’d been _three years_ since she had been kissed like that, carefully, his mouth moving above hers in near reverence. She had wanted more, wanted the feel of his teeth nibbling at her ear, of his tongue making lazy circles on her neck, of him marking his territory on her collarbone. She could picture it so clearly, the way his hands would study her body, his fingers trailing lightly along feverish skin. She used her own hands to follow a trail, reaching under her shirt to pinch at her nipples, hard the way he would; and then soft, like him too, a gentle caress to temper the sting. Her hands were tiny, not nearly as big as his, but if she closed her eyes, they became his.

They became hard at her waist, pushing her panties down over her hips in one sure, fluid move. They eased between her thighs, cool on her clit, and she bucked into them, her body reacting immediately. They parted her folds with finesse, almost gracefully, running along her slit, gathering the slick, enough to wet her hardened clit. She knew even her imagination wouldn’t allow her to reach as deeply as he could, so she focused her attention on her clit, rubbing slowly at first, setting a pace that she hummed into. It was good: the liquid feeling in her belly, an older memory of his eyes on her, stormy blue and low-lidded. They kneaded, as her hips bucked up, the scent of him filling her nostrils, the way he’d smelled in the club, like clean sweat and heat and the ever present sandalwood. They rubbed her faster, her fingers coated with her arousal. Her body succumbed to her own ministrations, the mental images of him-- _his voice whispering “Treasure” in her ear; the heat of him moving over her, inside her_ \--and she bit her lip when she came, all of the energy expended going into not moaning his name aloud.

The darkness hid her thoughts, her actions; she didn’t think it fair to ask it to hide her voice too.

When she snuggled deeper into the covers and closed her eyes to sleep, she reminded herself that she hated him. Despite a drunken kiss in a club that had brought unwanted flashbacks and early morning masturbation to thoughts of him, her feelings for him hadn’t changed. It was just that it was night and this was what happened, what was allowed, what Abbie let keep her sane. And in the morning, when the sun rose and took its rightful place, she’d go through her day like usual.

 

She didn’t run on Saturday mornings. She allowed herself the luxury of lying in bed until 9 and when her alarm sounded, loud and insistent, she was up, stumbling tiredly into the bathroom to shower, the light of day clearing her head once more. She cleaned her body and co-washed her hair, lathering the cleansing conditioner into her curls, humming to herself as she did.

After her shower, she toweled her hair dry and applied product, letting her curls lay a little bit wild against her shoulder blades. She dressed comfortably in a pair of leggings and a t-shirt, Outkast’s group symbol printed on it. After sticking her feet into a pair of sneakers, she grabbed her bookbag and was out the door.

 

 

The Coffee Shop was mostly empty when she walked in, Saturday mornings more suited to sleeping off hangovers than studying. There was a couple in one corner in bike shorts, helmets placed on the tables next to their coffees. There was a pretty black woman sitting on a couch near the front window, dressed to the nines already, a computer in her lap. Other than them, there was only the whirring sounds of the fans working overtime to cool the building and what Abbie guessed was someone’s indie playlist on Spotify drifting from the speakers.

Tony, the cute Italian barista, was at the counter, and his grin was wide as she walked up to the counter.

“Tony,” she smiled up at him, head tilted a little. “It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, it is,” he agreed. “We haven’t seen you around here in a few days.”

“I know. Between school, my internship, and my on-campus job, things are a bit hectic. But,” she hefted her bag higher on her shoulder. “I promise I have not abandoned you.”

A _look_ passed through his eyes, a pretty hazel-green set into smooth sun-tanned skin, his dark hair coiffed in a sort of casual disarray on top of his head. He coughed in the back of his throat, bringing his hand up to run along his mouth.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

Abbie ordered her regular and Tony promised to bring it over to her once it was ready. She found a seat at a table in a far corner of the space, piling her laptop, books, and notebooks on the table before placing her bookbag in the chair beside her.

Only moments later, Tony brought her a coffee, french roast with hazelnut and almond milk, in an oversized mug along with a huge muffin on a saucer. She inhaled the strong scent of the coffee, the warm smell of the bread.

“Tony, you know you don’t have to keep giving me free pastries, right?”

Tony gave a casual shrug. “Of course I know. But, it’s no big deal. Sometimes I like to give the pretty girl with the sad eyes a free scone every now and again. To let you know that there are people who notice you, who’d like to try to change that look.”

He gave her a grin before sauntering off, absolutely knowing that she flustered at his words. What happened to blushing Tony? Pretty girl with the sad eyes? What did that even mean? She watched him walk away, a smooth, long-legged gait that Abbie attributed to southern men, sure and cocky and slow, like they knew women would wait all day for them. When he got behind the counter, he winked at her, and then he resumed what she assumed were his normal duties. Well, Abbie noted, that was strange. And maybe a little bit hot. He’d never been that forward before.

She studied until after 2, gorging on coffee and sweet breads that Tony brought her until the words on the pages of her textbooks began to run together and her stomach cried out for something substantial. By then, the Coffee Shop had gotten more crowded, loners working and groups of people hanging out.

She gathered her belongings, packing everything up in her book bag to leave. She wanted to say goodbye to Tony, to thank him for the coffee and treats he didn’t let her pay for, but the line was way too long now. She did wait until she caught his eye, waving a little and giving him a soft smile. He returned it wholeheartedly and Abbie, a little embarrassed by the enthusiasm, slipped outside.

The walk home took a little longer than usual, Abbie strolling in the warm early September afternoon. When she stepped into her apartment, she found Sophie and Jenny lounging on the sofa, curtains drawn tight to keep out the sun. An episode of _How to Get Away with Murder_ was playing on the screen and Abbie shook her head at the sight before her.

“It’s after 2 in the afternoon,” she commented, dropping her bag by the door and kicking her shoes off. She padded over to her sister and friend, plopping down between them. Jenny was dressed similarly to Abbie, in leggings and a t-shirt, and Sophie was in a silk pajama short set, blankets piled on them. "Why aren't y'all up?"

“I am up,” Sophie argued, turning the television volume down with the remote.

“And I drove all the way over here,” Jenny put in.

“All the way?” Abbie frowned. “You live on campus, which is like two miles away.”

Jenny shrugged as it that made no difference.

“Why are you here anyway?”

“Bored. Cable at the dorms is out.”

“Again?”

“All this money we pay,” Sophie said. “And they can’t even keep the TV on.”

“What money? You’re on a bunch of scholarships.”

“Eh.”

She didn’t mention out loud one of the scholarships she’d lost because of her partying ways their sophomore year. It was a surprise that she’d managed to keep the two she had. Abbie had been gone, in Atlanta wallowing in heartbreak, and Sophie had not focused so much. She’d failed two classes and instead of taking them over the summer, decided to just stick it out another semester with Abbie. It all said a little too codependent but there was comfort in knowing someone loved her enough to wait for her.

“In either case,” Sophie said, “we pay too much for this.”

“Yes,” Jenny agreed. “But it’s fine. It just means I get to come and watch cable on HD.”

Abbie rolled her eyes. “Right. Not to come hang out with your big sister.”

“Nope.”

The trio watched the remainder of the episode, while Abbie ate a turkey sandwich she made, before she decided to go to her room to take a nap. She had pulled her leggings from her body, wrapped her hair, and slid into the bed, curled into the covers, when she felt her bed dip. A long arm wrapped around her from behind and she inhaled the smell of honeysuckle.

“I’ve missed you, Abs.”

Abbie had only seen Jenny around campus in the last couple of weeks and their phone conversations were limited to memes Jenny sent Abbie and random musings about things happening on campus.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy with school and work.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jenny’s tone was apathetic, used to Abbie’s push and pull back. Abbie noted it, added “Make sure to check in with Jenny more” to her mental to-do list and then she grabbed her sister’s hand where it rested loosely in front of her. She wove their fingers together, pulling Jenny closer until they were cuddling, Abbie’s head tucked under hers.

“Abbie?” The sound of her sister’s voice reverberated through her.

“Hmm?”

“I have a secret.”

“Yeah?” She patted Jenny’s hand reassuringly. “What is it?”

She felt Jenny take a deep breath before muttering, “I think I’m in love with Joe.”

Abbie stilled, sorting the words out in her head. Jenny was in love with Joe. A picture came to Abbie, then, of the four of them--her and Jenny and Joe and Corbin--and they were sitting around the living room, TV blaring in the background. Corbin was flipping through the newspaper and Abbie was studying, her first semester of classes (well, all the ones except Dr. Crane’s where, at the time, she was only enjoying because of the sniping she did with him in class) kicking her ass. Jenny and Joe, however, were both sitting on the sectional, closer than they needed to be on such a large space, talking about some obscure subject Abbie knew nothing about.

“You’re in love with Joe?” She repeated the words, like she was trying to make sense of them.

“Our brother Joe?”

“Our _foster_ brother,” Jenny enunciated.

“You’re right.” She said this, but that wasn’t all. Abbie wondered what it would mean for them, for their makeshift family, if Jenny and Joe were not siblings but lovers. Even thinking it, wondering about it, sounded strange to Abbie but she had to remember that they weren’t siblings, only something akin. They weren’t related; they weren’t real family, Still, how would the dynamic change, if Jenny and Joe did and then they faltered?

“Jenny…”

“I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while now,” Jenny shifted behind her, pulling her hand back. “But I wasn’t sure what your reaction would be.”

That gave Abbie another pause. “Why were you worried?”

“Well, it’s you. You judge. Sometimes, you’re distant. I can be too but at least I’m trying. When we first moved in with August and Joe, you would barely even talk to them. And I understood. Our childhood sucked, maybe yours even more than mine. But you don’t let people in and you shake your head at other people when they try to. I get it, Abbie, I do. I know that our situation was a lot different for you; you were older and privy to a lot more than I probably ever imagined. And you shielded me from a lot. But, Abs, you also use that as a way to tell me what to do or who to hang out with.”

Abbie inhaled. This used to be a constant, the reminder of Abbie’s detachment. It was all very cliche, she knew: her necessary aloofness, prompted by years of wariness of strangers, by promises broken before they were even uttered, by people who had neglected her. But, still that didn’t stop Abbie from hiding, from standing behind the highrises and barbed wires and metal locks that encased her heart. The one time she’d tried to let someone in, to even dare let herself feel something akin to love, it had all crashed and burned. It was then that Abbie realized she couldn’t do that again because she wasn’t strong enough. She couldn’t care too much, too deeply because she simply couldn’t handle that rejection again.

Abbie couldn’t say any of this to Jenny, though. She knew nothing about Crane and this definitely wasn’t the time to tell her. Even more, Jenny was strong enough. She was beautiful and loving and brave and she deserved more than a sister who wouldn’t even listen to her gush about the boy she had a crush on. So every warning she wanted to give, every other thing she wanted to say, she let go.

“How’d this happen?” she asked instead. “I mean, tell me about it.”

“I don’t know,” Jenny shifted again. “Have you ever been around someone and you feel hot and cold at the same time? Like, when you’re in the same space as them, you can _feel_ them, their presence?”

All Abbie could manage was a silent nod at that, surprised (and maybe a little disappointed) that she was not the only one who had experienced that phenomenon.

“Well, that’s how I feel when I’m around Joe. I don’t, I don’t know when it started. Probably the first time we walked into their house. I was a gangly 14 year old and there was 16 year old Joe looking all grown up to me.”

Jenny let out a little self-deprecating laugh. “But we’d hang out when you weren’t around. And then you and Sophie got really close and we’d hang out even more. We would joke and snipe and play games and I started to realize that I looked forward to being with him. Then, when you went away after your freshman year, I was...hurt.”

“You were hurt?” Somehow, this was news to Abbie.

“Well yeah, Abbie. My big sister disappears, no one knows where or why, except for Sophie.” There was obvious resentment in her voice. “And I know that you were working through whatever thing you say happened that year, but your absence was hard for me. We’d never been apart that long. And so Joe kept me company. Although we were all sick with worry about you, he kept me going.”

“Jenny…”

“No,” she interrupted and Abbie was actually grateful. She hadn’t been sure what she was going to say. They hadn’t talked about her time spent away. Jenny had only told her to never do it again and that she would be around whenever Abbie decided to trust her with the truth.

“It’s fine. We’ll talk about it one day, when you’re ready. But Joe kept me from feeling lonely. And then it got to the point that I would go to bed exceptionally giddy because being around him did that to me. For a while I denied it. It felt so wrong. Even you said, he’s our brother. And obviously we aren’t blood related but there is still something that feels so taboo about it, like it’s forbidden. So I didn’t say anything about it because it’s weird, right? It’s so fucking weird. But I like him Abbie; honestly, I think I love him and I can’t decide what to do about it.”

“What all you’re telling me was from years ago. You’ve loved him all this time and said nothing?”

“Well, yes and no. I kinda reigned it in, let it go. When he went off to Armstrong, it got easier. I dated other guys, I know he messed with other girls. It was all fine. And then, after dinner the night we were all at August’s, he told me I should come visit him in Savannah and that he’d show me around.”

Abbie’s eyebrows shot up at that. For a moment, she felt bereft, and a little confused at how all of this would be going on when she had no clue.

“And did you go?” Abbie felt Jenny nod against her shoulder.

“Last weekend. I rode up after classes on Friday. Stayed til Sunday morning.” Abbie noted the hint of feigned nonchalance in her tone, a sign that Jenny was holding in her excitement.

“And?”

“And it was so nice, Abbie. Some friends of his were having a party on Friday night so we did that. We spent most of Saturday at the beach and then we went to dinner at this really nice place downtown. We couldn’t go into any of the bars but that was okay because there was a live band playing in City Market. Savannah is so beautiful at night and it was…” she trailed off, as if searching for the right word. She settled on, “perfect. It was perfect, Abs.”

Abbie contemplated her words, unsure of what to tell her. This was more Sophie’s territory, the advice and the encouragement when it came to men and boys. Abbie wanted to tell her to be careful, to make sure that Joe felt the same way, to make sure he was in it as much as she so obviously was. But Jenny didn’t need warnings and cautions.

Abbie turned over so she could look Jenny in the eyes. She touched a hand to her face, absently brushing a curl off of her forehead.

“You know that there is nothing I want more in this world than for you to be happy, right?”

“I know.”

“And I don’t always do it right, but my goal is to look out for you. I want to make sure you’re safe.” Jenny bit at her lip.

“I know.”

“So whatever this is with Joe, I’m here while you figure it out and for everything else after that.”

Jenny’s smile was worth it. “Love you, Abbie.”

“Me too.”

At that, Jenny rolled her eyes before gathering Abbie in her arms again.

“I’m supposed to be the big spoon,” Abbie protested, curling into her sister.

“Whatever, short stuff.”

Feeling settled, Abbie closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

 

****************

_September 2016_

Deciding to return to America had been a strange conflict for Ichabod. Each year that he was gone, the university’s President had bombarded him with telephone calls and emails, hoping to persuade him to give his position another opportunity. After all, as he had not given a specific reason for his departure, it must have been something the administration had done.

Evanswood University was a highly ranked liberal arts school and Ichabod knew that the education pupils received was top notch. They recruited only the best. The best, however, did not always want to be recruited, as the city was small and not overly populated. Evanswood, while charming and quite active, did not offer the same amenities as the Atlanta’s and Boston’s and Chicago's. Understanding that, he was unsurprised at the constant contact. They needed to retain their best professors. He’d managed to pacify President Thompson, explaining his need to conduct further research in his field. And while that had not necessarily been false, he couldn’t very well explain to the man that he’d fallen in love with his student and he knew that he needed to allow her the opportunity to live a life without the strife his presence might have caused.

That seemed to be a moot point however, because she was still in Evanswood, still attending the university, and every time he saw her, he had to stop himself from falling to his knees in front of her, begging for her forgiveness, and imploring she take him back. She wouldn’t, he knew. Her words at Candy Land had told him that and her radio silence after he’d sent her the text messages had confirmed. That didn’t stop him from fantasizing about it.

In the days following the incident at Candy Land, Ichabod had found himself settling into a routine of sorts. He was teaching an entire load of classes: two American History, pre-Civil War courses; two modern American History classes, post Civil Rights Movement; and a research seminar, Patriots and Progressives, a deeper study in America’s inaugural years, from its founding to the early 20th century. This kept Ichabod busy and so his days were dully similar. He awoke minutes after 6 (this on the nights he did sleep), no alarm required, and showered and dressed for his day. He drove to the Coffee Shop, ordered his usual of coffee and a blueberry scone, and most days, he would walk the short mile to the university’s campus.

He taught his classes, the subject matter inducing the same bursts of excitement that his previous students had been so fond of. He spent most afternoons preparing for the next day, writing lecture notes and readying any multimedia exhibits he wanted to accompany the lesson. His evenings did vary; more often, he would pick up dinner from Mabel’s, a diner specializing in “soul food” that he was absolutely obsessed with and then head home to watch whatever program was airing on the History Channel until sleep claimed him or he got bored with it.

Often, he would think of her, their last encounter repeating in his head. It was the kiss that had thrown Ichabod for a loop. Well, he was fairly certain that it had thrown her as well. But, the memory of her full mouth on his, moving with an earnestness that he hadn’t felt since the last time her body had been pressed against his. It blew his mind, that he had forgotten how dynamic she was, how passionate. That was made even more clear when she’d pulled herself away from him in a huff, sobbing, wanting to be free of him.

Nothing had ever pained him more, seeing the tears spill from her eyes, watching the heaving of her chest as she showed him what leaving had really meant to her. Ichabod had known that there would be anger for his abrupt exit. He had known that she would be upset, that it had permanently altered their relationship, that she would never trust him again. What he had not predicted was the pain he had caused, how hurt she seemed.

It was easy to think, because of their ages, his position, that he had been the one to wield the power in their relationship. What most people would never guess is that she had been the one to make the rules, the one to decide their movements during every step of the way. Their first night, it had been her that leaned in and kissed him first, crushing her mouth to his in a bruising and hungry mess of tongue and teeth and lips. She had chosen most of the times they met. She would always come to him and though that might have been the obvious choice given the nature of the entire thing, Ichabod had always assumed that she had always appreciated being there so she could escape when she wanted to. After their first fight, she had stayed away from him for a week. He would see her in class and she would not make eye contact with him, instead dutifully taking notes during his lectures and talking animatedly with friends after. She had not seemed to care. He had been a bit of a wreck: clothing a tad disheveled, notes missing pertinent points, his bed way too big without her. She had seemed unfazed, still charming the people around her and still unbelievably beautiful. When she had finally returned one of his phone calls, she had steadily told him that the next time, she would leave him for good and that would be that.

Ichabod knew that she was exceedingly more closed off than he, but he had always been more present than she appeared. She would tell him fascinating anecdotes about her misspent youth, but never the reason why she had come to live in foster care. He knew everything about her body, every soft curve, every mark dotting her thighs, the exact expression her face made when she was falling apart beneath him. But he did not know much besides the name of the man who had permanently taken her in, much more about a sister she seemed to worry about constantly. Every time he uttered the words “I love you,” every time he tried to convey the words while staring into her eyes, she would kiss him in response, closing her eyes against his gaze. She had never even said the words back. He didn’t ever think she had quite been his.

So, the true effect of his departure had thrown him for quite a loop. And now he did not know how to fix it, if she would ever even let him try. Her guards were back and, quite truthfully, he couldn’t figure out how he had gotten through them the first time. All he knew was that missed her terribly and that his daily routine had begun to include thoughts of her. He could handle it. He had spent the last three years with images of her painted behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes; he could endure three more, if he absolutely had to.

 

Several long weeks after he had been stateside, he found himself at the Coffee Shop one warm Friday afternoon. As usual, the little shop was a hotbed of activity; however, Ichabod found a table tucked into the corner. He recognized several students from the university, and many of them waved cheerfully at him before they resumed chatting with their friends. He had only moments ago sat down with his chocolate croissant and tea. While coffee was obviously the reigning glory of the place, they did prepare a rather nice cup of tea. He hunkered down to work.

Much of Ichabod’s time was spent grading and responding to essays. In the years he had been teaching, it had become increasingly less difficult to discern the student who truly cared about the history of their own country. It was just as obvious the students who were merely there for credit. This made his commenting almost a sport, marking grammar mistakes and incorrectly cited information for a competition in which the students didn’t even realize they were participants. It was the only way that Ichabod wasn't bored out of his bloody mind. Freshman level essays were not particularly known for their brilliance.

Ichabod was not sure how long he had been sequestered in his corner before the door opened and brought with it a welcoming rush of warm air and her. It was strange to him how human beings could be so in tune with one another, so much so that they could detect another’s presence. He had had that with Betsy. It had been fainter, cloudier, the feeling more muted. He had just been able to tell when she was near, though he could never pinpoint the how.

It was different with Abigail. What he knew now was that this was so much more, _too_ much more, the manner in which his lungs constricted so that he could not breathe. It was only for a second, the loss of oxygen, and it was concurrently terrifying and exhilarating. Ichabod was used to it, though. It had happened every day in the six months of their dalliance, it happened when he had seen her again at the Coffee Shop, at Candy Land--although there, he’d lost a few more seconds upon seeing her in that silver dress--as well as a few times when she must have been around him on campus. When he felt the warm air filtering in and then when he found he had to breathe in deep to exhale, he looked up to see her walking through the door.

She was with her friend, Sophie, a dark haired woman Ichabod was sure would maim him if she were positive she would get away with it. The two women ordered coffee and Sophie moved away from the counter first. Abigail stood there for a while longer, and Ichabod watched on, frowning at the scene before him. He figured the young man was handsome, if tall, leanly-muscled men with attractively messy hair and eyes somewhere between green and brown was one’s type.

Abigail leaned over the counter, her straightened hair hanging past her shoulders. Her high heeled boots gave her legs, clad in unreasonably tight denim, length and her blouse tapered to her slim waist. She looked good. She looked happy, if Ichabod was reading the enamored expression on her face correctly. She talked for several long moments more before walking over to where Sophie had settled.

Ichabod didn’t like the feeling that had begun to lie in his chest, the way too visceral reaction to seeing her flirt with another man. He knew, intellectually at least, that she had not sat around and waited for him. He had wanted her to live her life without him; he had hoped she would. He had thought she would get over him quickly. Still, he could not deny that he was unprepared for the sight of it. It hurt, to be quite honest, more than the stabbing pain of leaving her, feelings he had managed to compartmentalize, to feel only when he wanted to.

This reaction--fists clenched, breathing shallow, eyes hard--was unexpected and involuntary and reflexive, the word mine blinking in his head. That was untrue, however. Again, Ichabod didn’t ever think that Abigail had quite been his. He shook himself out of his fury, taking a long swallow of tea to calm himself. He returned to his work.

It was another half hour before Ichabod felt the shift in air that alerted him to Abigail’s retreat. He let out a shuddered breath and then stood with the intention of going to refill his mug. His plans were thwarted, though, when he looked up to see Abigail’s friend standing before him.

Other than snippets of conversations he had heard and stories told by Abigail, he did not know much about Sophie. She was a lovely young woman: of Hispanic descent and just as petite as her roommate with dusty brown skin and long black hair she wore hanging down her back. There was fire in her brown eyes. She had matured in her features as well; gone was the probity of 19, replaced with the stress and weariness and uncertainty that followed seniors like a shadow.

“Um, M-Ms. Foster,” he stammered, straightening unconsciously.

“Hello, Dr. Crane.” Her voice was cool. “Mind if we chat?”

“Um…” He looked around briefly. No one was paying him any mind and that added to, not detracted from, his apprehension. It did not escape his attention that he was a bit frightened of a woman nearly a foot shorter than him and almost ten years his junior. She waited patiently, her right eyebrow raised, arms crossed over her chest. It would not surprise Ichabod to find out she was tapping her foot as well. Finally, he conceded.

“Yes, of course.” He waited until she had seated herself before he too sat down. Then, he braced himself.

“What I’m about to say to you,” she stated, “might seem to cross several lines. But, you know what it means cross all of the lines so we should be fine.”

She smiled at him, a smile that was just teeth and curved lips and did not reach her eyes.

“Carry on,” he mumbled.

“You hurt my friend.”

Ichabod blinked at the vehemence in those four words. “I…”

“No.” She stopped him with a hand.

“You don’t get to speak yet.” She stared him in the eye. “You hurt my friend. You broke her heart and if there was a way that I could break every bone in your body, I would.”

That, Ichabod had figured out just by the way she looked at him.

“The grave inappropriateness of your relationship aside, Abbie didn’t deserve what you did to her. She is beautiful and smart and loyal. And maybe she never said the words, but she loved you. Abbie doesn’t do love; but you came in, older and more mature and attractive. And you paid attention to her, the real her. The funny and kind and loving her. And then you left, another person who decided that Abbie Mills wasn’t good enough for you.”

Ichabod would take the blame for the demise of their relationship. He would happily take Abigail’s ire, would endure Sophie’s murderous gazes without comment. All of it he understood. He understood what it had meant for him, a man in a position of power, to become involved with someone so much younger than he and a student, no less. He understood the gross disregard for the rules, for propriety. Before he had met Abigail, he had judged tales of men who’d fallen prey to the cycle, who’d used sexual favors as a substitute for knowledge and good marks. Quite frankly, he still did. And despite the fact that he had loved her, he understood the implication. So he would take with him the guilt that still too often plagued him for their relationship and its end but he would now allow the woman before him to think that Abigail had not been enough.

“I appreciate your candor, Ms. Foster. And I agreed with you, right until you assume that I Ieft because Abigail was not good enough. My reasons for leaving are my own and I won’t share them before I’ve told her. But understand that she is the epitome of enough. She is brilliant and gorgeous and _I_ was lucky to have been sucked into her orbit. I was not enough.”

Sophie sat silently for a long moment, assessing him, Ichabod was sure. Her sharp eyes searched his face. She was not unlike Abigail in this way, the watchful, appraising gaze, judging and evaluating and determining intentions in the span of several seconds. The would do well in their chosen profession.

“For a long time, Dr. Crane, I wanted to be able to tell you to rot in hell.” She straightened the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “You’re right. I shouldn’t know why you left before she does. I know that you cared about her and I see the feelings you still have for her. That’s not always enough, though. And my loyalty is to Abbie, always. So until she says otherwise, stay the fuck away from her.”

She gave him that smile again, the one with only teeth, before she calmly got up and walked away. Ichabod let out a breath he was holding, wiping a hand over his face.

“God’s wounds,” he mumbled to himself. How tiny women could be so quietly horrifying, he didn’t know. Ichabod had barely gotten a chance to process his meeting with Ms. Foster before he heard his name, loud and booming. Abraham was coming his way, the lovely ginger they’d met at Candy Land following along.

“What’s up, buddy.” Abraham clapped a meaty hand on Ichabod’s back and he resisted the urge to cough.

“Hello, Abraham. Katrina.” She smiled down at him. “It’s lovely to see you again, Ichabod.”

“And you as well.”

“So,” Abraham picked up the conversation. “I saw you over here and Katrina and I wanted to know if you had plans tomorrow.”

Ichabod shook his head. “No, none.”

Abraham clapped his hands together. “Excellent. There’s a new dance spot in the Heights. I was thinking we could get dinner and go dancing.” His eyes shifted to Katrina. “And Katrina has a friend, Zoe, who works at the local history museum. She’s free tomorrow night too.”

Ichabod lifted an eyebrow. “Is that so.”

“Yes,” Katrina jumped in. “She really pretty and kind and I have no doubt the two of you will hit it off.”

Ichabod’s eyes shifted between the two: Katrina hopeful, Abraham pleading. He thought back to only moments ago, at Sophie’s threat. Then, he thought further back, to Abigail snatching from his arms with a sob and her shouting at him to not come near her. He did not know what it meant that he came back and that she was still here. He would like to think of it as fate, as the universe giving him another chance. But, for all of his hopefulness, the rose-colored glasses through which he sometimes looked, he was not a dunce. Abigail could very well never forgive him and as hard as it would be, he would do his best to leave her alone. Like he promised.

Ichabod looked between the two and hoped he gave them a jovial smile. “Count me in.”

 

***************

_October 2016_

Daniel Reynolds was a tall drink of water. EU was one of those bizarre places where everyone, students and professors and deans alike, were all ridiculously good-looking, like the cast of a television show. In knowing that, there were quite a few tall drinks of water roaming around campus but to Abbie, this glass looked particularly appetizing.

The first time she’d seen him, she’d been walking through the quad, on the phone with Sophie, not quite paying attention to her surroundings. She’d caught his eyes briefly, eyes like deep pools of melted chocolate, and he’d given her a dazzling white smile. There was a kindness in his features that appealed to her; well, that and how the sun kissed his smooth deep brown skin and the way his t-shirt managed to cling to his biceps. She’d quickly returned his smile before turning her attention back to her phone and her roommate.

The next time she saw him was a couple days later, at the end of one her electives. They were, coincidentally, both in the overful class and he’d managed to lure her from across the room. He had flirted a little bit, she had grinned in response, and he had managed to con her phone number and the promise of a date from her. That was a couple weeks ago and they had just managed to find a time to meet that worked for the both of them.

That was how, on the first Saturday in October, she found herself sitting on the floor of her closet, dressed in only a pair of hot pink panties and a matching bra, confused about what in the world she should wear. Finally, fed up with staring at her closet, she yelled,

“Sophie!”

Moments later, she heard her friend padding into the room before standing fully in the door of the closet.

“You rang?” she said, eyebrow arched as she stared down at her.

“Help.”

Sophie rolled her eyes good-naturedly and stepped into the room, red painted toes sinking into the carpet.

“Abbie, you’ve got a closet full of beautiful clothes. Why is this difficult?”

“Because staring at clothes and trying to figure out something nice makes me want to go back to high school Abbie.”

“Oh dear God, please don’t. The utilitarian style is so 2011.”

“Oh, suck it, Foster.”

Sophie kicked playfully at Abbie. “You need my help.”

Under Sophie’s careful tutelage, Abbie’s closet was a lot more eclectic than when they’d first met. While she loved comfortability, she’d found herself also enjoying the dresses and heels and color that Sophie had managed to get her in. It allowed for Abbie to explore other parts of herself. Maybe she was distant and bossy, but she was also bold (at least about the things that mattered) and cheeky and she wanted to reflect that too. Sophie sifted through some blouses and dresses, pulling out pieces and holding them up to look at them before returning them to the rack.

“What look are you going for?” she asked.

“Not sure. He didn’t say where he wanted to go. I don’t want to be too dressy.”

Sophie nodded. “Probably just dinner.” That was said more to herself as she placed a blouse back. “No white.”

This time, she pulled out a yellow floral print blouse in silk with a wide, turn down color that Abbie had never worn; it was actually a gift from Sophie. The flowers were darker, deeper colors, and Sophie paired it with a pair of pleated black trousers.

“What about this? And those really cute pair of nude pumps?”

Abbie nodded. “How do you choose things so fast?”

“You’re just overthinking it.” She ran a hand through her long dark hair.

“Well it’s been a while.”

“Right.”

Sophie hesitated for only a second before dropping to the floor, nudging Abbie with her hips. Abbie scooted closer to the row of shoes to make room.

“I’m glad you’re doing this, Abs.”

At that, Abbie pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her folded arms on her knees. “Yeah? Me too. Danny seems nice.”

“Yes. And he’s fucking fine.”

Abbie nodded in agreement, a small smile on her face. “That is definitely true.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, only the faint sound of the television drifting in from the living room. Abbiel let herself settle in the silence, allowing the feeling of excitement to flow through her briefly. She was apprehensive too, she’d admit. It had been a while since she had felt the flutter of joy, that little bit of anxiety that that accompanied a date. With Crane, there hadn’t been much dating. Except for that stolen weekend in Savannah and a surprise Spring Break trip to Hawaii, they hadn’t been able to go out publicly. So, more than not, this was foreign to Abbie and she tried to gather understanding of her emotions. She was ready for this. Her hair had been straightened and swung across her shoulder blades. She had an outfit she knew she looked good in. She was going out with a boy who, just a few hours ago, had told her how beautiful he thought she was an how he couldn’t wait to spend time in her presence. Hardened heart aside, she was not immune to compliments, not immune to spending time in the company of men who paid them.

“Abs?” The sound of Sophie’s voice pulled her from her revery.

“Hmm?”

“Promise me you’ll try.”

“What?” Abbie blinked at her, turning to face her more fully.

Sophie’s pretty brown eyes stared back at her, serious, and Abbie braced herself.

“Well, with Dr. British Asshole, I know how you felt about him. His choices, his British assholishness aside, I know how he felt about you too. How he still feels about you.”

Abbie jumped. “What? What do you mean how he still feels about me?”

Sophie looked slightly panicked for a moment before she casually rolled her eyes. “Well, the way he still looks at you seems to mean something. What I’m trying to say is: those feelings do not just happen to everyone, believe me. But relationships rarely end up feeling like our first loves. And so I want you to promise me that even if your stomach doesn’t quite butterfly like it did with him or even if you can still breathe when Danny is around, promise me that you’ll give it a try. Because more than you deserve someone who thinks the sun shines out of your eyes--and you absolutely do--you deserve someone who’ll stay.”

In a move Abbie hadn’t even anticipated, she leaned over and wrapped her arms around Sophie. She hugged her tight, squeezing Sophie to her.

“Promise me you’ll try, Abbie."

“I promise, Soph.”

 

Yes, Daniel Reynolds, was a tall drink of water. But, it wasn’t until he was standing on the other side of the door from her that Abbie would have considered herself thirsty. He wore dark pants and a cream sweater and though those were clearly of nice quality, it was not her clothes that did her in. It was him in the clothes. His slacks fit to the long length of his legs, the strength of his calves obvious. The sweater stretched over his shoulders, muscles bulging against the fabric. The color was beautiful against his dark skin and Abbie could now understand every cliche statement made about dark men and chocolate. And Abbie really liked chocolate.

“Mills, you l-look…”

He seemed to be just as speechless as she was, if the low-eyes gaze and stuttered greeting were any indication. Abbie knew she looked good, what with the way the blouse made her breasts push up and how round her ass was in the pants.

“You look pretty good yourself, Reynolds.” She gave him a real smile, warm and inviting.

“You ready?” he asked, grinning down at her.

“Yeah, I am."

“Y’all kids have fun.” This Sophie called from her bedroom door. “I won’t wait up.”

With a roll of her eyes, Abbie grabbed her purse and pushed Danny out towards his car.

He took her to a restaurant in Heights, a small suburb north of Evanswood. She sat in the passenger seat of his car, the fingers on one hand playing with a pleat in her trousers, as she stared out of the window. Everything in the Heights always seemed more dazzling to Abbie: the streets cleaner, the pedestrians more groomed, the colors somehow brighter, like they’d been dyed.

She and Jenny had lived in the Heights with a family for a time, a middle aged woman and her husband who were considering adoption and had wanted to “try it out first.” Regardless of how that had always come across to Abbie, they had been exceptionally warm people who, despite surely being in over their heads, had willfully taken two young girls into their home.

Abbie had liked it there, truly, but she had always been on edge. Everything had seemed too delicate, even the balance they had seemed to gain living there. The walls had been too white; Jenny could have smudged them with grape jelly stained hands. Their clothes had been too clean; she couldn’t dare play in the dirt. Abbie had always felt a little apprehensive there, as if she needed to put on, to play a role. To be more.

So, when the Jenson’s had moved somewhere north to be with Mr. Jenson’s ailing mother, and Jenny lamented the loss of always hot food and a bed all of her own, Abbie had felt like she could breathe again.

Danny’s car jerking to an uneasy stop at a red light pulled Abbie from her musings. She snapped her head over to look at him and his grin back at her was sheepish.

“Oh, sorry,” he mumbled.

Abbie lifted a brow. “Still driving on your permit?”

“Ha!” He shot her a real grin this time, his teeth even and white, a vivid flash against his dark brown skin.

Several moments later, he parked in front of a small brick building, the front porch covered in a green awning, the name La Mesa in beautiful script on the window.

“La Mesa,” she read, unsnapping her seatbelt. “The Table.”

“You know Spanish?”

“Not really,” she said. “But, ya know, Mexican roommate. You pick up things.”

Danny unbuckled his own safety belt, and hopped out of the car. Just as Abbie was reaching for her own door handle, the door opened and Danny stood there smiling, arm extended. Abbie hesitated for just a moment, flashes of a paler arm reaching out for her, bluer eyes staring back at her. She blinked, nearling falling out of the car, feet buckling in her shoes. Danny’s arms were around her in an instant, around her waist, pulling her close to steady her.

“Are you alright?”

He smelled different from the last man who had been this close to her: woodsy too, but spicier, warmer. His voice reverberated against his chest, the dulcet tone making her gaze up at him. He really was handsome, what with his skin like black coffee and his eyes liquid brown.

“Yeah,” she mumbled, her hair brushing his chin and she stood straighter. “I’m good.”

Just a corner of his unfairly full lips tilted and he lifted an eyebrow.

“Sure?”

“Yes, of course.” She grabbed his wrist and stepped away from the car. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

La Mesa was a true mom and pop restaurant, much like Sophie’s parents’, decorated in traditional art and bright colors and low lighting. From their point at the hostess stand, Abbie could see that the cooking staff were of Hispanic or Latin American descent and her stomach growled at the thought of authentic Mexican food.

Only moments later, they were being led between tables to a small table in a nook near the back. The entire restaurant was visible for her vantage point but no one would notice them much. It was cozy, quaint...isolated, and Abbie stifled the burst of panic that threatened her retreat. She swallowed thickly and took the seat Danny offered before he took his own across from her.

“I hope this is okay,” Danny said, running his fingers along the edge of the menu. He paused momentarily as a container of salsa and a basket of chips were placed in the middle of their table.

“I was so surprised you said yes that I forgot to actually ask you where you would have liked to go.” He gave her a little nervous chuckle and she smiled back at him because that’s what people on dates did and she was trying.

“It’s no problem. And, luckily for you, I love Mexican food.”

As if to prove a point, Abbie dipped a chip in salsa and took a bite.

“Oh,” she moaned, as the heat of the salsa hit her tongue.

“That’s good.”

“Yeah?” She glanced up at the sound of his voice, at the way he followed the swipe of her tongue as she licked the remnant of salsa from her mouth. She nodded, meeting his gaze--his eyes intense, focused--giddy and, on the contrary, _scared_ at the idea that someone other than Crane might be making her stomach drop.

“Then I should try some too,” and though he picked up a tortilla chip, Abbie knew that the food on the table wasn’t the only he wanted to taste.

“So I’m not good at this,” Danny mumbled after taking a bite, wiping a touch of salsa from the corner of his mouth.

Abbie raised an eyebrow. “Not good at…?”

“This whole dating thing.”

“Ah,” Abbie nodded pleasantly. “So you’re a love ‘em and leave ‘em kinda guy?”

“W-what?” Danny sputtered.

“It’s alright,” Abbie assured him. “I thought you might be the type.”

She then watched with slight amusement as he stuttered over his words: compliments: “it’s just that you’re so gorgeous”; and explanations: “that’s not what I meant; I’m a good guy”; and justifications: “I’m just so nervous.”

Finally, Abbie started laughing, a low chuckle that became a full on guffaw as she clutched at her side the more Danny stared at her, eyes wide and lips parted.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, once her laughter had subsided. “I’m just messing with you.”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “Right.”

“I get it Danny.” Her smile softened the dig. “I haven’t been on a date in a long while either. We’re both nervous.

“Right,” he nodded again.

“Okay. How do we rectify that?”

“Twenty questions?” His laughter told her he thought she was ridiculous but he would happily play along.

“So, favorite color?”

A waiter came soon after to take their order and even after their food came, a burrito the size of Abbie’s head for Danny and a carnitas tacos for her, they played the game, finding out some interesting, if unimportant facts about the other.

Her favorite color was yellow because she loved the way it looked on her skin. He agreed, a salacious look in his eyes. She was not surprised by his love of sports, though his affinity for ice hockey threw her a bit. He, similarly, was not shocked at her obsession with Criminal Minds (“Women love watching shows about serial killers.”). He didn’t quite understand, however, her thing for Spencer Reid; but she couldn’t exactly tell him that the last man she’d fallen for had been like Reid, white and lanky and nerdy and still kinda hot, despite all that.

He loved spending time at the beach and she couldn’t stop the picture of him half naked and dripping wet from planting in her mind and staying there a while. He smiled knowingly at that. He also loved superhero shows (“Arrow is my shit.”) and he kept pictures of his baby sister in his wallet. Abbie admitted she was adorable.

They both expressed an appreciation for anything dipped in chocolate and fried vegetables--they’d both grown up in the south, after all--and Abbie’s fascination with baseball had Danny already propositioning for a date when baseball season rolled around again. It was the most fun she’d had in such a long time that she found her cheeks hurting from how wide her smile had been all night.

 

They were contemplating desert when she felt it. One would think she’d be used to it. It was a feeling she had been experiencing since she’d first laid eyes on him in The Coffee Shop so many moons ago. But the sensation of electricity zipping through her veins was one she supposed she might never fully embrace, the lightning a straight shock to her heart. Her stomach flipped, flopped, and the hair on the backs of her arms stood up. The air around her positively crackled with energy and Abbie didn’t quite understand how no one around them could feel what she was feeling.

She searched for him, lifting her gaze from the meager desert menu and casting her eyes around, telling herself that she only wanted to make sure she wasn’t going crazy and not that she was looking for him. When she found him, Abbie’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes adjusting to the scene in front of her.

Crane, for one, looked just as handsome as he always did, casually dressed in a pair of jeans nicely fitted to the long length of him. He was not ignorant to the magnificence of his eyes and favored blues and grays, colors that made his eyes...she didn’t know, more, and so against the deep blue shirt, his eyes were a methane flame. She could imagine that people might take notice of how good-looking he was, but Abbie could only focus on the fact that he was not alone.

There was Van Brunt, his sidekick, tall and attractive in jeans, a button down, and a blazer. He was standing beside a gorgeous redhead who looked vaguely familiar, dressed in a royal blue wrap dress that made her hair look like fire. And next to Crane was a woman nearly as tall as him in her heels, staring up at him as if he had personally tied a rope around the sun and flung it into the sky. Or maybe she thought he’d created the mountains and spawned the seas, what with the doe-eyes as he pulled a chair out for her. Either way, Abbie was disgusted and she couldn’t figure out if it was because of the enamored look on the woman’s face; or if it was because of the pleased look on his: slightly nervous (because for all his arrogance, he really was a softy when it came to the opposite sex) and a little bit charmed at being in her presence.

She could have just been mad at herself for even caring, for still harboring romantic feelings for him after everything. He hadn’t cared enough to stay and he had clearly moved on, if this double date was anything to go by.

She took a long swallow of her water and said, “I need to use the ladies’ room. Excuse me a moment.”

If Danny noticed any change in her demeanor, he didn’t make any indication. She stood and walked as calmly as she possibly could, avoiding eye contact when she passed by Crane’s table.

The night air hit her in a rush when she pushed through the front door. While relatively warm, it was a windy night, and Abbie put her hands into her pockets, leaning against a wall near the edge of the building. Heights was never overly crowded or too noisy, so Abbie could just hear the sounds of laughter drifting from up the streets. She reveled in the quiet, in the still September night.

“Fucking A, Mills,” she grumbled abruptly. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself? Let it go.”

She paced in a circle, attempting to take deep, calming breaths, hands locked on top of her head. She was on her tenth, maybe eleventh twirl around when she stiffened, one heel uncomfortably positioned on a rock.

“Hello, Abigail.”

She wondered if some part of her had not expected him to show up, if the reason she had gone all the way outside was so that he might be able to find her, to talk away from prying eyes. That was not what she voiced, however.

“I thought I told you to stay away from me.”

There was a weighted silence and she thought he might have gone. But her heart was still beating in her throat and the hair on her neck still bristled, so she guessed not.

“Yes, well...I told you I was not so sure I could.”

She turned around at that, her hair brushing her shoulders. Up close, his sweater stretched cleanly over the width of his shoulders and while Crane was not exceptionally muscular--he was too skinny--he was fit; and that was so obvious in the way he wore his clothes.

“You seem to have moved on, despite that.”

It wasn’t what she’d meant to say. It’s what came out, though. For a moment he managed to look absolutely flummoxed, his nose wrinkling cutely. He still had his hands in his hands in his jean pockets and his head was tilted slightly.

“Oh,” he mumbled stupidly. “You mean Ms. Zoe?”

“Ah,” she nodded. “Pretty name.”

A lifted eyebrow was the only acknowledgement of her pettiness.

“She is merely an acquaintance.” He took a step toward her, moving further from the light, and before she could respond, he told her, “It was Abraham’s idea.”

“She seems just your type,” Abbie noted, infusing nonchalance into her words.

“Oh?” For a second he appeared amused, but the expression was gone just as quickly as it appeared. “And tell me, Abigail: what is my type?”

Abbie lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. Her, I guess. Dark hair, gorgeous eyes, beautiful.”

“Is that not you?”

This time she looked up at him, at the way too sincere expression she wanted to wipe from his face.

“I don’t know.” This shrug wasn’t so casual as the first.

“I’m a lot younger than you, a lot darker. You could have been living out a fantasy, a fetish.”

Crane was a man of his emotions. It was one thing she had always admired about him--loathed, coveted: how easily he could live in his emotions, how honestly. To watch those emotions play across his features had been fascinating when she was in tune with him enough to know how to appeal to either one. But now, when they were no longer connected, she watched with anxiety his feelings play out: the astonishment, the anger, the hurt. She could no longer tell which one was weighing more heavily. And Abbie decided that she didn’t feel quite so fascinated anymore.

He moved toward her and she backed up, one step, another, until her back hit the wall. He loomed over her, tall and fuming, the anger obviously having won out. She couldn’t say whether the rapid rise and fall of her chest had more to do with the anticipation of his mounting anger or merely because of his proximity.

“Do not ever say, do not ever think that you were a, a, a fetish.” He nearly spat the word so much as sneered it. “What I felt for you, what I feel for you, has no place for…”

He stepped closer still, until she had to tip her head all the way back to meet his eyes.

“I’ll admit that I made poor decisions where you and I were concerned. And your age, your,” he sniffed, “color, might give a bit of a pause for some were we to be seen together, especially in this town. But Abigail…” He lifted a hand to ease a few strands of hair from her face.

“Do not ever reduce us to something so vile as that.”

They stared at one another for a long moment, the air around them stilted. Abbie broke away first, moving around him to walk in the gravel once more.

“Yeah, well, taking off in the middle of the night and disappearing for three years does nothing to dispel that notion.”

Abbie didn’t actually think that was the reason Crane had started seeing her. But, when those late night thoughts of him turned dismal and Abbie allowed herself a few moments to replay their relationship, she could never figure out why then, why it was that time, that stage in their relationship that he decided to get ghost. It was either that or the alternative, that she just wasn’t good enough, and she didn’t know how much more of _that_ particular thought she could take.

“A decision I’ve regretted since the morning I stepped onto that plane.”

“So you say.”

“And so I mean.” His tone was resigned. “And what of you? There appears to be “no love lost,” as it were. It seems you’ve fared well.”

Abbie ran a hand through her hair. “What are you talking about, Crane?”

“You are not wanting for suitors. I have seen you, with young men around campus, the fellow at the Coffee Shop, and now this,” he waved a hand, “date you’re on.”

“Careful,” Abbie told him. “You’re real close to sounding like you’re judging me.”

“I would never.” His response was automatic. “But it seems you too have moved on.”

She noted the jealousy in his tone, and wasn’t it typical that as soon as a woman attempted to move on with her life, an ex would come back to campaign for things passed. But there was a sadness there too that she could not place.

“Because what else was I supposed to do?”

She was yelling again, her skin heated with fury. She didn’t want to continue on this path, to keep harping on something that was supposed to be over and done. And, on most days, he was but a vacant hum in the back of her head, a hum that she could easily ignore. It was only when she was around him again that the pain, the hurt, the agony, came back two-, three-, ten-fold, and all she wanted to do was lash out.

That feeling was something Abbie still couldn’t understand. She was not an overly emotional person. She took her wins and her losses with an easy grace, if a little sheltered. She was not one for public displays of affection, or public disagreements for that matter, and love was something one showed in action, not flowery words. Anger was something to discuss rationally before donning leggings and a t-shirt and hitting the pavement for a jog. The yelling and shouting and crying was so out of character that it made her _angrier_.

“Was I supposed to wait for you all this time? Was I supposed to sit by the phone while you were out doing whatever and whoever in another fucking country?”

She threw her hands up.

“You know what? Fuck you, Crane. You do not have the right to Come in here and judge me for seeing someone else. You don’t even have the right to care.”

“No,” he said softly. “I do not. And yet, I find myself unreasonably furious at the thought of you loving anyone else but me.”

That took a lot of the wind out of her sails and her mind drifted back to what Sophie had said, about Crane still having feelings for her. She deflated, not allowing the broken look on the man’s face to sway her. She had a right to her anger.

“We can’t keep doing this, Crane. You left and I am still pissed about it. But this fight can’t continue. I don’t have the, the strength to do this with you anymore.”

She stood up straighter, straightening her clothes to avoid making eye contact.

“We live in the same town; we’re both at Evanswood everyday. Our world is small and so it’s obvious that we can’t avoid each other. But this can’t keep happening so let’s just,” she made a vague waving motion with her hand. “Let’s just coexist. We can do that, right? If we see each other, we nod and move along.”

“Like strangers, you mean?”

“Isn’t that what we are?”

For the first time since she started her tirade, she looked him square in the eyes.

“Because the Ichabod I knew, the Ichabod I thought I knew, would have _never_ done me like that.”

She walked away from him, calmly this time, a little spent at the exuded energy.

The restaurant was full and loud and she moved back through the tables towards where she hoped Danny still sat. To her surprise, he still was, scrolling through his cell phone, the table cleared. He looked up as she neared, his eyes doing a sweep of her before settling on her face. 

She slid into the seat, meeting his eyes, and something told Abbie that he knew.

“If you hadn’t left your phone and your purse, I would have thought you’d ditched me.”

“I’m so sorry, Danny. I just needed air.”

“So I saw.” He rubbed at his face, long fingers skimming his beard.

She waited for his response.

“He works at EU, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.” It made no sense to lie.

He nodded, as if in understanding, processing the implication. She didn’t know how much he’d heard, what part of the conversation he had been privy to, but either way, she recognized what it would appear to be to him.

“And y’all are..?"

“Nothing,” she answered quickly. “We’re doing nothing.”

He blinked at her tone. “Okay. So what I saw was?”

“The end.”

Danny’s grin transformed his face, and Abbie was struck at how beautiful he was: dark as earth, grounded, his eyes conveying interest and patience, and a willingness to see her.

She was surprised at his easy acceptance of her affair with her professor, hoped that wasn’t something that would come back to bite her in the ass. Plus strange things happened in Evanswood all the time.

“Well, alright.”

He eased out of his chair and he held his hand out to her. After only a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed it, hoping that this, merely a gesture, could truly be indicative of her future, of a place where she was free of the hold Crane still held.

She only briefly flicked her gaze to Crane’s table. He was staring at her, at them, at her hand in Danny’s, and there was a bit of joy, that she could make him so obviously distressed. She gripped his hand a little harder, a silent agreement with herself to be a bit more open.

To try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all... writer's block is a motherfucker. In addition to being way too busy with the start of the new school year, I was hit with a crazy case of writer's block and, obviously, it took me way too long to get this out.  
> I'm not 100% happy with this but this does set us up for what's next to come. Plus, it is a BIT of a doozy. A lot of things happened and I know you might not be happy with them all. (And I hope with the length you can forgive me for such a long time between updates.)  
> BUT I've got the next chapter outline done and ready to go, so I'm hoping it won't be another three months before I can update.  
> To all those people who do like this fic and my writing, I am really appreciative of you all. It is not easy to be vulnerable and put out work for other people to critique and comment and potentially hate so I am thankful to people who have liked and left kudos for me. It means so much and I love y'all for it.  
> I do hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, at least a little, and I'll be back before you know it.  
> \--Elle


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